MOUNTAIN 


A  Novel 


BY 

CLEMENT  WOOD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  EARTH  TURNS  SOUTH,' 

"GLAD  OF  EARTH,"  "JEHOVAH," 

ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &•  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BT  E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

THEODORE  DREISER 


2138888 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    BIRTH i 

II.     THE  JITDSONS      ......  7 

III.  THE  COLES 169 

IV.  THE  CLASH 205 

V.    THE  SCATTERING 331 


vu 


MOUNTAIN 


I 

BIRTH 


MOUNTAIN 


HIGH  places  have  always  held  for  a  man  a  spell  and 
a  mystery.  He  could  not  traverse  the  windy  ways 
of  air,  the  spacious  trails  of  the  birds;  but  he  could 
climb  these  rocky  steeps,  as  hard-won  steps  toward  the 
billowing  mountains  of  clouds,  and  the  beaconing  stars, 
and  the  sky-homed  mystery  of  mysteries.  The  hills  were 
a  fastness  to  daring  souls,  yielding  far  vistas  of  shrunken 
valleys.  They  were  a  menace  to  the  low-dwellers:  out 
of  the  heights  fierce  warriors  darted,  like  plunging  eagles 
or  swooping  hawks,  to  plunder  the  placid  wealth  below. 
Men  were  their  bone-whitened  victims,  and  their  length- 
ened, pliable  arms. 

The  chill  mantle  of  snow,  the  provocative  veiling  of 
clouds,  rested  upon  them ;  their  streams  were  arteries  to 
the  valleys  below,  offering  life  to  tree  and  beast  and 
man,  and  later  an  easy  path  to  the  shore  and  the  sea. 
They  were  size  made  tangible,  power  made  visible. 
From  their  crests  the  lightning  flamed,  the  hoarse  tongue 
of  the  thunder  spoke.  The  mountain  in  labor  sometimes 
brought  forth  a  mouse ;  sometimes,  a  rain  of  fiery  death 
to  the  Herculaneums  cowering  at  its  foot.  Ararat  and 
Nebo,  Popocatapetl,  Pelion  and  Pele,  Olivet  and  Cal- 
vary, were  hills.  It  is  no  wonder  that  men  sought  them : 
Mahomet  in  the  end  went  to  the  mountain.  It  was  on 
Olympus  that  Jupiter  held  his  home ;  it  was  from  storm- 
ing Sinai  that  Jehovah  thundered. 

3 


4  MOUNTAIN 

Four  low  hills  lay  side  by  side,  near  the  center  of  a 
southern  state.  They  stretched  their  prone  forms,  like 
four  gray  and  red-brown  serpents,  from  the  piney  foot- 
hills above  the  Black  Belt  to  the  craggy  Appalachians. 
Their  visible  bodies  were  parallel;  but  their  rocky  skele- 
tons, that  jutted  into  water-worn  summits,  were  not. 
The  two  outer  hills  were  like  the  top  halves  of  the  shells 
of  a  huge  bivalve;  their  gray  structure,  chipped  by  the 
persistent  artisanship  of  time,  still  indicated  that  they 
had  once  folded  high  above  the  two  central  heights. 
The  stony  structures  of  the  latter  leant  toward  one  an- 
other; they  were  now  taller  and  of  a  darker  hue  than 
their  gray  outposts. 

It  was  the  second  hill,  as  you  came  from  the  east, 
that  was  called  simply  "the  mountain."  It  ran  almost 
due  north  and  south;  its  western  half  was  a  steep  and 
even  slope,  its  more  gradual  eastern  side  was  toothed 
with  countless  prongs  flung  into  sunrise  lowlands, 
brought  up  abruptly  by  the  sandstone  crags  to  the  east. 
The  crest  of  the  mountain  was  indented  irregularly  by 
rounded  gaps  or  passes,  like  pie-crust  carelessly  forked. 

The  rocks  that  broke  through  its  summit  tilted  sharply 
to  the  east,  just  under  the  surface  of  the  mountain. 
Four  miles  nearer  the  sunset,  beyond  Bragg  Valley  and 
Adamsville,  the  iron  city,  was  the  third  hill,  whose  rocks 
slanted  at  almost  the  same  angle  as  the  mountain's,  but 
in  the  opposite  direction.  This  had  once  been  the  moun- 
tain's sunset  slope.  Flanking  the  central  heights  to  east 
and  west  the  sandstone  hills,  "Shadow  Mountain,"  and 
"Sand  Mountain"  beyond  West  Adamsville,  were  at 
once  younger  and  older  than  the  central  ridges, — later  in 
their  depositing,  earlier  in  their  contact  with  the  sky. 

A  mountain  has  no  memory,  as  men  have.  Outside 
forces  may  gash  and  groove  it,  as  memory  is  cut  into 
the  mountain's  wandering  sons ;  but  these  scars  have  no 


BIRTH  5 

meaning  to  the  hill  itself:  they  are  only  legible  to  its 
more  meditative  children. 

If  the  mountain  had  had  memory,  it  would  have  been 
able  to  think  back  to  a  period  long  past.  Then  it  lay 
germinating  beneath  a  slowly  thickening  crust  of  clay 
and  sand,  under  a  restless  sea  swarming  with  jelly-like 
bodies  and  strange  shelled  creatures.  The  former  left 
no  trace;  the  armored  creepers,  dying,  left  their  self- 
built  monuments,  to  swell  and  pimple  the  oozy  wave 
deposits.  Buried,  unborn,  the  mountain  lay  for  length- 
ening ages. 

But  the  skin  of  the  earth  is  restless,  as  the  inner  fires 
waver  in  their  long  cooling.  Beneath  the  volatile  cloak 
of  air,  and  the  tidal  robe  of  waters,  the  rocky  layer  en- 
crusting the  unknown  vast  core  of  the  earth  moves  in 
its  own  hour.  A  slow  adjustment,  a  period  of  planetary 
shudders,  and  a  land  is  engulfed,  a  continent  pressed 
upward.  The  thick  strata,  the  product  of  long  and  in- 
termittent deposits,  are  buckled,  folded,  and  squeezed 
into  mountain  chains;  huge  slices  of  ageless  schists  and 
gneisses  are  torn  away  and  driven  above  the  younger 
strata;  there  is  an  immense  crumpling  and  rupture.  So 
are  the  hills  born. 

At  last  the  time  of  parturition  came  for  the  mountain. 
Force,  says  Marx,  is  the  midwife  of  progress;  force,  a 
vast  and  burning  upheaval  from  below,  a  strained  and 
spasmodic  pressure  from  the  molten  womb  of  the  earth, 
bowed  the  mountain  out  of  its  deep  resting  place,  tilted 
away  the  early  sea,  arched  its  summit  high  over  the  sur- 
rounding lowlands.  The  stress  of  its  long  birth-pangs 
squeezed  and  fused  its  scattered  substance  into  a  closer, 
more  welded  body.  Above  it  still  folded  its  sandy 
younger  covering,  shutting  it  from  sun  and  cloaking  sky. 

Out  of  the  northern  lands  the  tilted  waters  came, 
joined  by  brawling  floods  of  melted  snow  and  rain. 


6  MOUNTAIN 

Slowly,  following  the  central  crevass  cracked  by  the 
main  upheaval,  these  wore  off  the  mantling  sandstone, 
until  it  retreated  sulkily  to  east  and  west, — bared  breast- 
works of  grayness,  bald  and  hoary  crests  whose  dull 
whitening  seemed  a  stooped  and  withdrawn  age.  Down 
the  midst  of  the  mountain  swirled  the  flood,  until  the 
first  widening  fissure  opened  into  a  long  bowl  four  miles 
wide;  and  two  cowering  hills  separated  by  this  gradual 
bowl-like  valley  were  all  that  was  left  of  its  curving 
majesty.  The  stream  slowed,  narrowed,  became  a  paltry 
creek,  noisy  only  in  wet  weather. 

So  was  the  mountain  born. 

Green  scarfed  it  in  the  green  seasons;  but  barer 
months  revealed  the  weathered  red  outcropping  on  its 
summit.  Its  red  stain  smudged  the  valley,  and  tinted  the 
water  that  carried  its  message  to  the  far  gulf. 

The  mountain  did  not  know  the  red  and  stiffened 
earth-blood  within  its  heart,  or  the  secret  of  the  red 
stain.  No  more  did  Shadow  Mountain  know  the  reason 
for  its  grayness.  The  square  sandstones  quarried  from 
it  and  faced  to  support  thin  wooden  walls,  the  unconceal- 
ing  glass  fired  out  of  its  materials  into  goblets  and 
vases,  could  not  tell  their  origin.  Nor  could  the  rough 
red  boulders  carted  away  to  hungry  charcoal  fed  fur- 
naces, nor  the  iron  sows  and  pigs,  and  the  tempered  rails 
and  chains  that  were  fashioned  of  its  being,  explain  their 
nature,  or  the  hard  red  substance  that  was  the  mountain's 
heart.  But  at  last  its  self-conscious  children  knew  the 
secret,  and  called  it  iron. 

Redness,  iron,  congealed  earth  blood, — the  name  is  un- 
important. The  thing  itself  was  the  multiple-veined 
heart  of  the  mountain,  red,  cold,  and  waiting. 


II 

THE  JUDSOXS 


II 


SIXTY  miles  southeast  of  the  mountain  drowsed  the 
town  of  Jackson,  sinew  of  the  old  South  as  surely 
as  Adamsville  was  brawn  of  the  new.  Gettysburg  and 
even  Appomattox  had  said  their  words  before  the  earliest 
Ross  had  squared  the  logs  for  the  first  shanty  over  Ross 
Creek,  from  which  the  iron  city  grew;  and  at  that  time 
Jackson  had  already  counted  its  half  century. 

It  lay  in  the  crotch  where  the  river  forked.  Protected 
by  water  on  two  sides,  and  by  open  barrens  on  the  third, 
its  location  had  attracted  wandering  Cherokees  into 
building  here  their  huts  and  log  stockades,  until  guarded 
Tallulah  became  the  Indian  heart  of  the  region.  The 
persistent  seeping  of  pioneer  migration  from  the  eastern 
seaboard  eddied  around  it;  the  white  interloper  treated 
here  with  the  native,  coveted  the  prosperous  red  fortress, 
and  made  it  his  own.  Its  name  was  changed  later  to 
that  of  the  popular  hero  who  drove  back  the  redcoats 
from  the  rich  levees  of  New  Orleans,  and  scattered  be- 
fore him  the  redskins  of  the  palmettoed  peninsula  at  the 
southeast  land's  end.  When  the  young  nineteenth  cen- 
tury brought  statehood,  bustling  Jackson  became  the 
capital.  It  is  hard  for  those  who  remember  Jackson,  or 
Charleston,  or  Richmond,  in  the  sleepy  glamor  of  their 
later  years,  to  think  of  these  as  uncouth  pioneer  clear- 
ings :  but  such  was  their  beginning.  The  first  town  hall 
in  Jackson  was  a  blockhouse,  and  more  than  once  the 
straggly  strings  of  huts  at  the  split  of  the  river,  which 
constituted  the  settlement,  had  seen  marauding  Indians 
repelled  from  its  main  street. 

9 


io  MOUNTAIN 

Political  dignity  transfigured  the  village  out  of  its 
buckskin  and  bowie-knife  existence,  into  a  leisurely  civic 
siesta.  Governors  and  legislators  peopled  its  walks; 
pillared  mansions  grew  at  the  heads  of  long  avenues  of 
water  oak.  The  hilly  barrens  and  sedgy  river-fields  were 
combed  into  ordered  rows  of  large-bladed  corn  and 
stocky  cotton  bushes.  Slavery  came  early,  and  the  slave 
quarters  stretched  behind  the  mansions  and  in  the  parched 
treeless  opens.  The  anomalous  shanties  of  the  poor 
whites  sprang  like  fungoids  on  outlying  poor  lands,  and 
bunched  near  the  river  pier,  where  the  fussy  side-wheel- 
ers, the  Tallulah  and  the  Southern  Star,  churned  the 
muddy  water,  eager  to  paddle  away  past  swampland  and 
sandy  waste  to  the  gulf.  Idling  negroes  sprawled  along 
the  pier,  and  on  the  bales  before  gin  and  compress; 
vehement  orators  in  the  Capitol  fisted  their  defiance  to 
the  dastardly  Liberty  Men  coiled  like  vipers  in  the  arid 
North.  The  heavy  pour  of  the  sun,  and  the  formal 
courtesy  of  the  lords  of  the  dark  soil  and  the  dark  soul, 
mellowed  the  manner  of  the  place,  shaped  it  into  that 
unhealthy  beauty  and  charm  men  call  the  Old  South. 

One  of  the  earliest  white  settlers  had  been  a  Potomac 
planter,  Derrell  Judson.  His  vigorous  descendants  had 
grown  up  with  the  town,  and  left  their  touch  upon  the 
whole  somnolent  section.  There  was  a  disused  Judson's 
Landing  three  miles  up  stream,  and  a  ramshackle  Judson- 
town  on  the  Greenville  Road  to  the  southwest.  Two  of 
the  family  had  been  mayors  of  the  village;  there  had 
been  a  wartime  lieutenant-governor,  and  at  least  one 
congressman,  with  a  proud  host  of  lesser  officials.  None 
of  the  family  had  meant  more  to  Judson  eyes  than  a 
grandson  of  the  early  settler,  Judge  Tom  Judson,  whose 
flashing  spirit  had  broken  from  his  last  year  at  college, 
in  the  troubled  early  spring  of  '61,  to  enter  the  gray 


THE  JUDSONS  n 

cavalry.  A  year  later,  a  captain  now,  he  had  hurled  him- 
self in  daily  desperate  charges  against  the  imperturbable 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  following  his  beloved  Stone- 
wall. At  last  an  exploding  shell  carried  off  an  arm,  and 
with  it  his  military  usefulness  to  the  Confederacy.  When 
he  walked  weakly  out  of  the  hospital,  two  years  later, 
the  cause  had  become  too  hopeless  for  his  capable  di- 
rection to  be  of  value. 

With  the  war's  end  came  the  order,  signed  by  his  own 
governor,  calling  for  emancipation.  In  front  of  the 
weather-etched  pillars  of  the  portico,  Judge  Judson  lined 
up  his  slaves,  and  dismissed  them  from  servile  happiness 
into  precarious  freedom.  Close  beside  him  were  his  three 
sons,  Derrell,  Pratt,  and  Paul,  the  eldest  only  six;  their 
young  minds  were  black  with  tearful  rage  against  the 
"damn  Yankees"  who  were  causing  the  exile  of  the 
loved  negroes.  The  black  faces  were  grimed  with  tears ; 
this  changed  social  condition  seemed  nothing  but  a  ca- 
lamity to  the  well-tended  household. 

Many  of  the  slaves  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave. 
Old  Isaac,  the  coachman,  hung  onto  the  reins  until  he 
dropped  dead  at  the  cemetery,  one  broiling  Decoration 
Day.  Aunt  Jane,  who  superintended  the  cooking,  dared 
"them  Bureau-ers"  to  meddle  around  her  kitchen.  The 
younger  negroes  gradually  straggled  away;  but  their 
places  were  rilled  with  servants  as  well  known  to  the 
family.  The  masters'  attitude  toward  them,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  remained  almost  the  same  as  during 
"slavery  times." 

The  judge  built  out  of  the  empty  days  an  enviable 
practice  of  law,  and  trained  one  son  to  aid  him  in  this. 
The  three  brothers  gradually  took  their  father's  place  in 
Jackson  living;  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  decade 
of  the  century,  they  were  essential  to  the  well-ordered 


12  MOUNTAIN 

existence  of  the  community.  The  Jackson  Hotel,  where 
the  present  Derrell  Judson  had  succeeded  an  uncle,  had 
been  the  center  of  the  town's  visiting  life  for  fifty  years. 
The  time-specked  shingle,  "Judson  &  Judson,  Practi- 
tioners in  All  Courts  of  Law  and  Equity,"  still  hung 
above  a  run-down  office  entrance,  where  Pratt  Judson 
kept  the  firm  name  in  use,  although  there  had  been  no 
partner  for  more  than  fifteen  years.  The  youngest 
brother,  Paul,  had  graduated  from  the  State  University 
at  Greenville  the  year  of  his  father's  death.  With  an 
initiative  tendency  unpromised  by  his  blood,  he  deter- 
mined to  lead  off  into  a  new  line,  deciding  upon  real  es- 
tate, through  a  belief  in  the  physical  expansion  of  the 
river  town. 

Two  doors  from  the  Judson  house  was  the  Barbour 
"city"  place.  It  was  during  the  solemn  painfulness  of 
his  father's  funeral  that  Mary  Barbour  first  impressed 
herself  upon  the  sorrowing  youngest  son's  imagination. 
They  had  been  boy  and  girl  together;  in  those  days  they 
had  decocted  frequent  mud  confections  with  Pratt,  and 
Jack  Lamar  and  Cherokee  Ryland.  But  the  girl  had 
grasped  a  rare  chance  to  attend  an  art  school  in  Phila- 
delphia, just  after  Paul  started  to  college ;  and  now,  after 
the  absence,  he  found  her  grown  into  a  new  and  sur- 
prising grace  of  person.  There  was  a  hint  of  shy  primi- 
tive beauty  in  her  irregular  features.  The  hair  was 
chestnut,  and  as  straight  as  an  Indian's;  the  eyes  pos- 
sessed that  quality  of  sympathetic  comprehension  that 
spoke  the  mother-soul.  His  heart,  emptied  by  the  gap 
of  his  father's  absence,  needed  a  new  object  to  cling 
to;  and  she  was  attractive,  obvious,  and  near. 

Mary  Barbour  had  already  admired  Paul  with  an 
artist's  aloof  gaze ;  she  saw  in  him  a  tall,  black-eyed  young 
beau,  the  best  shot  in  the  Jackson  Grays,  the  invariable 
cotillion  leader.  Now  she  began  to  know  him  as  the 


THE  JUDSONS  13 

ardent  lover  as  well.  With  characteristic  determination, 
he  elbowed  all  tentative  rivals  out  of  the  way.  The  girl 
found  herself  escorted  with  gallant  insistence  every- 
where by  this  headstrong  and  heartstrong  wooer; 
dances,  picnics,  gossiping  church  suppers, — for  eleven 
months  his  attendance  delighted  heart-coupling  minds  in 
the  little  town. 

One  cool  June  night  he  caught  her  hands  within  his, 
in  the  honey-suckled  dimness  of  the  Barbour  side-porch. 

"Mary,  dearest,  dearest, "  His  assurance  deserted 

him  for  a  moment,  his  throat  gulped.  He  clung  to  the 

relaxed  fingers.  "We — we've  waited "  he  paused 

lamely,  then  finished  assertively,  "It's  been  long  enough !" 

A  caressing  smile  went  with  her  answer.  "It's  not  a 
year,  Paul, — mother  was  engaged  almost  four." 

"I  can  take  care  of  you  now,"  he  urged  with  affection- 
ate crispness.  "We've  had  enough  of  this,  honey.  You 
fix  the  date — to-night!"  His  arms  bound  her  closer. 

"Paul— you  hurt " 

"Then  do  as  I  say,"  he  laughed,  triumphantly  passion- 
ate. 

He  won  her  answer. 

The  wedding  helped  christen  the  new  Baptist  Church. 
The  systematic  sweetness  of  the  honeymoon  included  a 
flashed  glimpse  of  Mammoth  Cave,  and  a  short  stay  at 
Niagara.  Upon  the  return  followed  eager  days  and 
nights  in  which  she  was  allowed  to  grow  into  his  plans. 
He  discussed  his  projects  fully  with  her,  taking  her  to 
see  the  houses,  lots,  and  subdivisions  from  which  their 
living  was  chiefly  derived.  She  marveled  at  his  cease- 
less energy.  Drive,  drive,  drive, — in  a  fading  commun- 
ity dozing  in  the  enervating  aroma  of  decaying  days:  no 
wonder  he  succeeded  so  well!  The  business  constantly 
broadened  in  importance  and  scope. 

Mary  had  her  plans  and  dreams  too, — intimate  visions 


14  MOUNTAIN 

that  left  small  room  for  the  old  desires  toward  artistic 
success ;  and  these  she  soon  shared  with  Paul.  The  hus- 
band was  anxious  that  the  first  baby  should  be  a  boy. 
He  had  not  tired  of  his  grinding  work ;  but  he  had  begun 
to  realize  that  the  slowly  maturing  schemes  would  in- 
evitably open  out  further  opportunities;  business  was  a 
never  ending,  slowly  widening  game.  He  could,  of 
course,  confine  his  activities  to  the  simple  beginnings. 
But  he  realized  that  this  could  only  mean  that  some  one 
else  would  take  advantage  of  what  he  had  started;  and 
he  wanted  to  keep  his  fingers  clamped  upon  the  pulse 
of  it  all.  The  time  would  come  when  a  son  who  could 
fit  into  his  visionings  would  be  an  invaluable  aid. 

The  days  plodding  toward  the  birth,  when  Mary 
walked,  more  and  more  alone,  down  the  narrowing  road 
to  the  ultimate  taut  gate  of  motherhood,  made  the  warm- 
eyed  bride  even  dearer  to  him.  It  seemed  so  unfair, 
this  voluntary  tempting  of  death  required  of  the  woman 
— there  were  hours  when  he  hated  himself  for  the  sum- 
moning of  the  ancient  curse  upon  woman,  and  would 
have  put  himself  in  pledge  to  recall  the  irrevocable  act. 
The  dragging  schedule  of  pain  should  somehow  be  al- 
tered. But  the  thought  of  the  tiny  son  on  his  insensate 
way  was  a  consolation. 

The  elaborate  layette,  with  ample  contributions  from 
friends  and  relatives,  was  threaded  with  tiny  blue  rib- 
bons; the  baby's  arrival,  like  a  human  alkali  on  litmus- 
paper,  changed  the  significant  shade  to  pink.  Eleanor, 
his  first  born,  gradually  claimed  her  father's  regard ;  but, 
although  Paul  never  referred  to  it,  the  perversion  of 
his  hopes  was  a  tremendous  disappointment. 

The  second  girl,  Susan,  followed  two  short  years  later. 
By  this  time  the  father  had  pushed  into  the  management 
of  the  Jackson  Street  Railway,  and  had  seen  to  it  that 
the  persistent  dummy  duly  puffed  and  creaked  through 


THE  JUDSONS  15 

Newtown,  a  cheap  suburb  he  had  plotted  out  around  the 
cotton  mill  to  the  north.  Absorption  in  this  scarcely 
left  him  time  to  regret  the  second  daughter ;  he  accepted 
the  fact  as  a  matter  of  course;  he  did  not  waste  regret 
upon  a  thing  he  could  not  change. 

Then  came  Pelham,  the  first  boy.  Mary  never  forgot 
the  days  of  packed  happiness  when  she  sang  over  his 
crinkly  head,  in  the  creaky  yellow  rocker  that  had  been 
her  mother's.  They  had  been  waiting  for  him  so  long, — 
the  father  was  so  boyishly  happy  and  proud  of  the 
wrinkled  pink  bundle  that  her  mother  put  in  hie  arms 
for  a  precious  moment,  even  before  Mary  had  seen  her 
son, — somehow  making  a  man  child  seemed  a  big  achieve- 
ment. And  he  had  been  her  boy  from  the  first;  the 
fourth  baby,  fat  little  Hollis,  never  touched  her  strung 
heart  chords  as  did  the  earlier  son. 

They  were  indeed  lovely  children,  Mary  was  fond  of 
telling  herself.  But  they  were  a  constant  drain  upon 
her  time  and  attention,  and  upon  Paul's  bank  account. 
Sheer  desire  to  accomplish  had  driven  him  at  first;  with 
the  coming  of  the  boys,  he  had  to  buckle  down  for  their 
sakes. 

The  renewed  vigor  of  his  enterprise  lengthened  the 
reach  of  his  dealings.  Among  the  real  estate  men 
throughout  the  state  who  measured  themselves  against 
him,  he  found  none  shrewder  or  more  alert  than  an 
Adamsville  operator,  old  Nathaniel  Guild.  This  man, 
interested  in  some  state  grants,  stopped  at  the  Jackson 
Hotel  while  the  legislature  was  in  session,  and  thus  met 
Paul.  The  local  operator  felt  the  calculating  scrutiny 
of  the  other  during  all  of  an  all-day  barbecue  and  junket 
taken  by  the  law-makers  at  Tallulah  Shoals.  Evidently 
satisfied  at  last,  on  the  ride  in  the  elder  man  leaned  over, 
and  said  with  hesitating  gravity,  "You've  been  to  Adams- 
ville?" 


16  MOUNTAIN 

"Why,  yes.  .  .  .  Not  only  pleasure  trips;  we  handle 
lots  out  Hazelton  way." 

Guild  waved  this  aside.  "An  excrescence.  Have  you 
noticed  the  mountain — the  one  west  of  the  city?" 

"Recently  I've  only  been  there  on  business " 

The  gray  eyes  narrowed  and  sparkled.  "I'm  talking 
business.  There's  land  for  sale  there,  that  will  quad- 
ruple in  value  in  ten  years.  The  development  must  be 
in  that  direction, — that  is,  for  the  first-class  residence 
section.  I've  got  a  little  to  invest;  I  want  some  one  to 
go  in  with  me.  What  do  you  say?" 

"I  like  to  watch  my  money.    I'm  tied  up  here — 

"Come  to  the  iron  city :  it  needs  iron  men."  Apprais- 
ing admiration  spoke  in  his  glance.  "I  think  you'd  fit. 
Why,  man,  Jackson  hasn't  added  a  thousand  people  in 
forty  years;  Adams ville  has  fifty  thousand  now,  to  your 
five." 

The  idea  startled  Paul.  Leave  Jackson!  It  was  one 
thing  for  Dr.  Ryland  to  go  away,  or  the  Lamar  boys, 
or  even  Judge  Roscoe  Little  and  Borden  Crenshaw. 
They  were  comparative  newcomers ;  the  earliest  Cren- 
shaw dated  back  only  sixty  years.  But  the  Judsons  were 
a  Jackson  fixture:  his  place  was  here.  His  black  eyes 
clouded  uncertainly ;  at  that,  he  might  invest  a  little.  .  .  . 

The  other's  words  continued;  ".  .  .  chance  of  a  life- 
time. It's  big !" 

"When  can  we  look  it  over?"  A  spurt  of  eagerness 
spoke  in  the  tone. 

"Come  up  next  week.  .  .  .  Bring  Mrs.  Judson?" 

"I  doubt  if  she  could  make  it." 

"You'll  come?" 

"Ye-es.     I  may  bring  the  eldest  boy." 

After  dinner  he  told  Mary  of  the  conversation.  "We 
couldn't  pull  up  stakes,  I'm  afraid.  Anyway,  Pelham 
will  enjoy  the  trip.  How  about  it,  son?" 


THE  JUDSONS  17 

"Oh,  father!"  The  bright-eyed  face  was  expressive 
enough. 

Her  consent  was  assumed,  Mary  noticed,  as  had  been 
her  husband's  custom  for  the  last  few  years. 

He  did  not  tell  her  how  his  mind  kept  recurring  to  the 
other  suggestion  that  Guild  had  made.  If  he  were  ever 
to  leave  Jackson,  the  time  had  come.  The  state  capital 
stood  still.  Adamsville,  founded  since  the  war,  already 
crowded  New  Orleans  as  the  commercial  center  of  the 
gulf  region.  Judge  Little  had  moved  his  law  office 
there ;  at  least  a  dozen  prominent  Jacksonians  were  pros- 
pering in  the  iron  city.  The  iron  city!  He  could  find 
room  to  stretch  his  visions  there! 

Nathaniel  Guild  stayed  over  and  made  the  trip  with 
the  two  Judsons.  It  was  a  tiresome  journey  for  all  of 
them;  at  length,  his  attention  worn  out  with  the  dizzy- 
ing panorama  of  the  sunset  hills,  the  boy's  head  nodded 
forward  on  his  hands,  his  eyes  closed,  his  breathing  be- 
came deep  and  regular. 

Some  time  later,  the  father  reached  over  and  shook 
the  sleeping  boy  kindly  by  the  shoulder.  "Wake  up, 
Pelham, — Adamsville !" 

The  tired  child  straightened  quickly,  showering  a 
drizzle  of  cooled  cinders  from  Paul's  linen  duster,  tucked 
around  him.  "Are  we  there?" 

"Just  about.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  it's  too  dark  to  see  the 
mountain.  These  are  the  furnace  yards.  .  .  .  Watch 
for  the  coke  ovens !" 

Pelham  needed  no  urging. 

The  train  was  slowing.  The  heavy  coaches  bumped 
over  uneven  places  in  the  roadbed.  There  was  a  subdued 
hissing  scream  where  wheel  met  track. 

At  first  he  could  make  out  nothing  through  the  win- 
dow. The  light  from  the  smelly  kerosene  lamps  above 


i8  MOUNTAIN 

fell  on  the  dull  sides  of  freight  cars;  he  could  see  only 
a  vague  darkness  between  them. 

Abruptly  the  string  of  cars  ended.  Beyond  a  wide 
open  space  he  saw  sinister  black  buildings,  grotesque, 
bulging  with  vast  tanks.  Above,  a  trellis-work  of  ladders 
ended  in  ungainly  smokestacks  that  crowded  the  sky. 
Suddenly  a  burst  of  flame,  a  piercing  tongue  of  reds  and 
yellows,  broke  from  the  top  of  one  of  the  wider  tanks. 
Dense  smoke  and  steam  shot  out.  The  whole  yard  was 
washed  in  a  red  glare. 

"Charging  the  furnace,"  Paul  said.  He  was  as  thrilled 
as  his  son  at  the  sight. 

Guild,  in  the  window  corner,  shriveled  still  farther 
into  his  seat,  his  lined  face  crackling  with  pleasure,  as 
he  observed  the  boy's  intense  astonishment. 

Pelham  did  not  answer  his  father.  He  greedily  ab- 
sorbed every  sharp  detail  of  the  burning  picture.  The 
metallic  buildings  seemed  made  of  flame.  The  occasional 
windows  just  passed  flickered  redly, — as  if  the  night, 
within  and  without,  were  on  fire.  The  light  dimmed, 
burned  brightly  for  a  moment,  then  startlingly  went  out. 
The  vacant  night  was  blacker  than  ever. 

Dim  thoughts  struggled  within  the  mind  of  the  child, — 
clouded  fancies  of  the  mouth  of  hell,  the  pit  of  eternal 
burning  and  damnation. 

Then,  as  the  train  ground  to  a  standstill,  again  the 
night  flared  brilliantly.  The  tracks  glowed  like  pulsing, 
living  gold.  Just  beyond  the  third  pair,  and  parallel  to 
them,  ran  a  long  mound,  hardly  higher  than  the  train. 
Every  few  feet  leaping  fire  twisted  up  from  it.  The 
smell  of  the  smoke  stung  his  nostrils. 

A  man  with  a  lantern  ran  shouting  past  the  window, 
and  disappeared;  his  face  was  coal-smeared,  red,  hor- 
rible, in  the  sudden  glow.  The  boy  shuddered.  There 


THE  JUDSONS  19 

were  black  figures  standing  around  the  fire  holes.  Three 
or  four  were  dumping  a  squat-bellied  car  into  one  of 
them.  The  waiting  train  was  stiflingly  warm.  It  must 
be  frightfully  hot  above  the  fire!  Those  devils  there 
emptying  cargoes  of  lost  souls  into  the  brimstone  pits, 
— surely  they  could  not  be  men ! 

"Coke  ovens,"  explained  the  father. 

Pelham  pressed  his  nose  more  tightly  to  the  pane. 

The  other  man  drew  out  his  bulky  wallet,  and  was 
lost  in  the  intricacies  of  some  creased  maps.  Paul  Jud- 
son  pointed  here,  there,  upon  their  surfaces,  arguing 
vehemently.  The  boy  paid  no  attention  to  any  of  it. 

This  was  his  first  sight  of  the  iron  city.  He  never 
forgot  it.  ... 

The  mountain,  when  they  reached  it  the  next  morning, 
was  marvelously  different.  The  steam  dummy  passed  the 
last  house,  and  the  negro  shacks  sprawling  beyond,  and 
began  to  puff  and  cough  up  the  steep  slope. 

It  was  May,  and  the  boy's  dreamy  fancies  were  caught 
and  tangled  in  the  green  vistas  that  endlessly  opened  and 
closed  on  both  sides  of  the  track.  Below  the  fill  on  the 
town  side  a  succession  of  heavy-fruited  blackberry  bushes 
ran  close  to  the  tracks.  The  broad  leaves  and  waxen 
flowers  of  the  May-apple  carpeted  unexpected  clearings. 
A  shapeless  negress,  four  babies  clutching  her  skirts, 
balanced  her  heavy  basket  on  her  head,  and  blinked 
stolidly  at  them. 

At  last  they  struck  the  level  gap  road,  and  the  end  of 
the  dummy  line  just  beyond. 

Pelham  gathered  wild  flowers,  as  they  climbed  up  to 
the  northern  crest  of  the  gap.  They  were  for  his 
mother,  if  they  could  be  induced  to  last  until  night.  On 
the  top  overlooking  the  wide  valley  he  found  a  conven- 
ient rise  of  rock  steps,  shaped  out  of  the  solid  iron  ore ; 


20  MOUNTAIN 

while  his  father  and  Mr.  Guild  talked  and  pointed,  he 
sat  down,  fanning  himself  with  his  sailor.  .  .  . 

The  men  strolled  back,  Paul's  face  flushed.  He  ges- 
tured impetuously  from  the  elevation  to  the  citied  valley 
below.  "A  magnificent  chance,  Nathaniel.  Your  moun- 
tain grips  me." 

"It'll  take  a  long  time,  remember.  Don't  go  off  half- 
cocked." 

"The  thing's  here  before  my  eyes!" 

"Adamsville  won't  really  touch  the  mountain  for  ten 
years.  It's  good  .  .  .  fine  residence  property,  but  .  .  . 
That's  the  Crenshaw  land,  just  beyond.  They  have  four 
eighties ;  they  run  all  the  way  to  this  road."  The  heads 
bent  over  the  map  again. 

"We've  simply  got  to  take  it  all,"  Paul  reiterated. 

Guild's  familiar  cautions  and  objections  came  forth 
again.  "Not  that  I  wouldn't  like  to,  but  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  you  can  see  in  it,  then  ?"  Paul  asked  finally. 

"Frankly,  it's  all  I  can  put  in  anything  now." 

"I'm  going  into  it  hard.  How  will  this  do?  We'll 
take  half  of  this  eighty  together,  and  the  nearest  Cren- 
shaw one.  I'll  buy  the  rest  of  this  and  the  Crenshaw 
land,  and  the  Logan  place  on  the  south.  ...  I  can  raise 
it  somehow.  Pratt  will  help  me.  ...  It  will  be  first 
mortgage." 

With  this  settled,  they  circled  down  to  the  gap,  and 
back  by  dummy  to  the  Great  Southern  Hotel. 

On  the  way  down  to  the  dummy  station,  Paul  picked 
a  dogwood  blossom.  It  was  still  fresh  in  his  lapel  when 
he  and  his  son  arrived  at  the  pillared  home  in  Jackson. 

Pelham's  flowers  of  the  morning  had  withered ;  his 
moist  clenched  fingers  had  reluctantly  abandoned  most 
of  them  on  the  seat  of  the  tardy  Dixie  Flier.  But  the 
limp  remains  in  his  grimy  handkerchief  he  carried  into 
his  mother's  room,  and  left  on  her  dresser. 


THE  JUDSONS  21 

The  boy  was  asleep  when  she  found  them.  After 
pausing  above  a  half-emptied  scuttle,  she  arranged  them 
in  a  small  green  vase,  and  replaced  them  in  the  bed- 
room. All  night  their  quiet  odor  upset  the  ordered  room 
with  a  word  of  wilder  life. 


Ill 


PAUL  JUDSON  came  back  from  that  trip  on  fire  with 
the  mountain.  On  the  creased  blue-print  he  traced 
for  Mary  the  outlines  of  the  sections  and  quarter-sec- 
tions, wooing  her  interest,  a  thing  he  had  long  ceased 
to  do.  His  pencil  shaded  the  curving  paths  to  the  crest, 
and  aimlessly  roughed  in  a  design  for  a  house;  this  he 
eyed  from  several  angles.  "Guild  agrees  that  this  would 
be  the  best  location  for  a  home." 

Her  mind  pieced  out  the  half-uttered  wish.  "Not  for 
us,  Paul!" 

"Mm  .  .  .  maybe." 

"But — to  leave  Jackson!" 

He  grew  argumentative,  with  an  expansive  selflessness. 
"It's  only  fair  to  the  children  to  give  them  the  wider 
chance.  There  are  nice  people  in  Adamsville  .  .  .  big 
people." 

Her  every  objection  was  met  by  an  urgent  answer;  she 
resigned  herself  at  last  to  his  insistent  determination. 
Sometimes,  lately,  she  had  felt  a  little  afraid  of  this 
masterful  husband,  the  incarnation  of  courtesy  away 
from  home,  the  slave-driver  with  his  family.  His  father 
had  been  the  same  type,  as  Paul  had  once  reminded  her. 
It  stirred  in  his  blood;  Derrell  and  Pratt,  the  older 
brothers,  had  ordered  him  around,  as  a  boy,  as  dictatori- 
ally  as  if  he  were  a  negro;  he,  in  turn,  had  bossed  the 
neighboring  children,  and  the  servants.  "Bred  in  the 
bone,"  Mary  had  once  said  to  her  mother.  "He  can 
cover  it;  he  can't  change  it." 

On  occasion,  he  was  considerate  and  tender;  but  if 

22 


THE  JUDSONS  23 

there  was  work  to  be  done,  he  attacked  it  with  impetuous 
ferocity.  Negroes,  children,  even  his  wife,  became  tools 
to  be  picked  up,  used,  and  laid  down  as  quickly.  In 
her  heart  Mary  resented  the  attitude,  even  while  defend- 
ing it  to  her  family. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  he  plunged  at  the  acquisition 
of  the  mountain  lands,  and  the  planning  of  the  new 
house.  Mary  found  little  of  the  chummy  spirit  that  had 
warmed  the  first  few  married  years;  instead,  the  hold 
that  the  hill  had  taken  upon  his  imagination  intensified 
his  usual  dominance.  Adamsville,  the  mountain,  called 
him.  He  had  a  recurring,  varying  vision  of  the  iron 
city  brought  to  the  feet  of  the  mountain;  of  country  es- 
tates climbing  up  to  his  crest  home,  overlooking  the 
whole  city,  the  state,  the  South.  He  saw  himself  filling 
coveted  public  offices.  .  .  .  The  shifting  details  spurred 
his  determination.  With  the  mountain  his,  he  could  do 
anything,  be  anything.  .  .  .  He  gave  slack  rein  to  these 
fancies;  for  he  knew  that  man  spent  more  hours  upon 
these  preparatory  visions,  desire-spun  solitaire  conversa- 
tions and  imaginary  victories,  than  upon  any  other  ac- 
tivity: even  sleep  was  filled  with  a  continuation  of  the 
day's  longings,  altered  but  unmistakable.  He  would 
differ  from  the  usual  man  in  that  he  would  drive  or  bend 
to  completion  these  airy  plannings. 

His  secret  dreams  he  shared  with  no  one.  Mary  may 
have  suspected  their  existence,  from  his  silent  spells  of 
brow-knitted  thought,  but  he  denied  her  the  confidence 
her  cordial  sympathy  had  hoped  for.  His  desire  blue- 
printed the  future  unassisted. 

At  times  he  sought  to  weigh  this  push  that  quickened 
his  nature.  He  began  to  think  of  himself  as  one  of  the 
iron  men  out  of  whom  the  New  South  was  being  forged, 
painfully  but  surely.  He  was  a  Judson  in  all  of  it;  but 
he  possessed,  more  than  the  rest,  a  driving  ambition  too 


24  MOUNTAIN 

strong  to  be  satisfied  with  the  unfruitful  life  of  a  South- 
ern aristocrat.  Changing  conditions  were  rapidly  elimi- 
nating this  impossible  and  antiquated  incongruity.  He 
was  more  than  a  Judson.  His  nature  reacted  away  from 
the  typical  Southern  vices,  which  neither  of  his  brothers 
had  escaped.  He  was  continent,  even  in  drinking.  The 
endless  object  lesson  that  had  been  given  him  by  his 
crotchetty  old  father,  who  toward  the  last  drank  himself 
into  a  daily  querulousness,  was  not  lost  on  the  son.  Paul 
rarely  took  even  a  toddy;  and  the  clear  mind  that  this 
gave  should  be  of  value  in  whatever  harsh,  lean  years 
might  follow. 

All  of  his  energy  went  toward  the  mountain.  It  was 
Mary  whose  embroidering  fancy  christened  the  new 
home  "Hillcrest  Cottage,"  on  her  one  visit  to  the  place, 
just  before  the  completion  of  the  interior.  Beyond  this, 
she  found  her  counsel  unheeded  in  the  designing,  even 
in  the  complicated  arrangements  for  the  moving. 

What  a  time  is  moving!  A  self-willed  chaos  to  fa- 
miliar routines  and  associations,  an  involuntary  revisiting 
of  dead  hours  and  buried  sensations.  It  brings  an  end- 
less plowing  up  of  forgotten  once-hallowed  trifles, 
which  the  fond  heart  would  fain  reject,  but  can  not;  it  is 
a  rooted  and  ample  world  fitted  into  packing  cases, 
hustled  and  baled  into  temporary  death.  The  old  life 
was  and  is  not,  the  new  life  is  still  to  begin.  It  warns 
of  the  shaky  foundations  beneath  rooted  habitudes;  and 
at  the  same  time  calls  forth  adventure  and  daring  in  the 
soul  of  man. 

Such  thoughts  thronged  Paul  Judson's  mind,  in  dis- 
jointed sequence,  as  his  busy  steps  took  him  through  the 
large  littered  rooms  of  the  family  mansion.  He  wore  his 
old  garden  shoes,  stained  by  grass  and  lime,  scuffed  by 
cinders :  a  pair  of  carefully  patched  brown  woolen  trou- 
sers, the  lower  half  of  a  once  prized  suit;  and  a  blue- 


THE  JUDSONS  25 

figured  shirt,  turned  to  a  V  at  the  neck,  with  a  green 
paint  blotch  on  one  side  which  strenuous  laundryings 
had  not  been  able  to  efface.  A  wall  mirror  gave  him  a 
passing  reflection  of  himself;  he  smiled  as  he  pictured 
what  would  have  been  his  father's  horror  at  such  un- 
gentlemanly  garb.  Boxes  of  books,  ropes  for  the  extra 
trunks,  piles  of  straw  for  the  china — all  these  must  be 
arranged  under  his  eyes.  He  packed  the  fragile  Haviland 
and  the  shaped  fish  set,  used  only  on  unusual  occa- 
sions, with  his  own  hands.  He  knew  negroes;  you 
couldn't  trust  them  with  a  thing. 

He  looked  irritably  under  lumped  old  quilts,  piles  of 
table  linen,  and  cloth-shielded  pictures.  "Mary!"  he 
demanded,  sharply. 

"Yes,  dear?"  She  dropped  what  she  had  been  doing 
at  once. 

A  free  hand  gestured  nervously.  "The  hammer — I 
had  it  just  a  moment  ago." 

An  experienced  gaze  interrogated  the  room.  It  was 
the  ninth  call  for  that  hammer  since  breakfast  had  been 
cleared  away. 

Just  beyond  the  door  an  empty  packing-case  gaped. 
She  put  her  hand  on  the  missing  implement,  cached  within 
it. 

The  troubled  line  left  his  forehead.  "We'll  take  the 
pictures  next,"  he  said  curtly,  bending  again  to  his  task. 

Mary  Judson  stood  watching  his  efficient  activity.  She 
had  stayed  unnoticed  at  his  elbow  nearly  all  the  morning, 
to  anticipate  these  calls.  He  continued  hammering  ener- 
getically, unconscious  of  her  observation. 

He  straightened  his  still  youthful  shoulders  a  moment, 
to  lift  a  stack  of  heavy  books  from  the  mantel.  Paul 
Judson,  as  she  loved  best  to  remember  him,  furnished  the 
food  for  her  musings;  they  dwelt  in  haphazard  incon- 
secutiveness  upon  his  erect  figure  at  the  head  of  the 


26  MOUNTAIN 

Decoration  Day  line  of  his  company,  upon  h'is  ardent 
face  bending  over  tiny  Pelham's  crib,  upon  his  wry  ex- 
pression yesterday  while  she  bandaged  a  cut  wrist;  then 
to  the  alien  admiration  her  kindly  brother  felt  for  the 
husband's  driving  vitality. 

"Mary,  did  you  get  those  quilts  to  cover  the  piano?" 
His  crisp  query  broke  into  her  thoughts. 

With  a  start,  "On  the  cherry  table,  dear." 

A  contented  mumble  reached  her;  evidently  the  mis- 
laid coverings  had  been  found. 

She  stirred  herself,  and  called  the  girls,  Eleanor  and 
Sue.  "Will  you  bring  father  the  pile  of  pictures  on  my 
dresser,  children?" 

They  skipped  quietly  up  the  stairs. 

In  a  few  moments  they  chattered  back  through  the 
dining-room,  where  Mary  was  adjusting  the  linen  into 
a  cedar  chest.  Sue  stumbled  over  a  corner  of  the  carpet ; 
several  unframed  photographs  slipped  out  of  her  arms. 
Her  father  looked  up  impatiently.  She  recovered  them 
in  a  moment,  and  spread  them  on  the  bare  table. 

"Mother,  this  is  me,  isn't  it?  'N'  this  is  Pelham,  V 
the  baby  picture  is  Hollis — isn't  it,  mother?  Nell  says 
it's  Pell  too." 

"That's  Hollis,  children.  Hurry:  your  father  is  wait- 
ing ;  he's  ready  to  pack  them." 

The  girls  reluctantly  went  on,  arguing  over  the  identity 
of  a  befrizzed,  balloon-sleeved  aunt. 

She  heard  her  eldest  son  in  the  kitchen  now,  asking 
Aunt  Sarah  if  she  too  were  going  to  the  new  home. 
Sarah  had  been  her  mammy,  and  had  taken  care  of  all 
four  of  the  children. 

The  rich  black  voice  laughed  hugely  at  the  question. 
"Is  I  gwine?  Is  Aunt  Sarah  gwine?  Is  you  gwine! 
Better  ask  yer  maw  if  she  gwineter  take  you.  Whar 
Mis'  Mary  Barbour  goes,  I  goes!" 


THE  JUDSONS  27 

Pelham  persisted,  "But  Aunt  Jane  isn't  goin'." 

Precise  Sue  took  him  up  at  once.  "Of  course  she  isn't. 
Aunt  Jane's  very,  very  old,  Pell.  She's  'mos'  a  hunderd. 
Aren't  you,  Aunt  Jane?" 

The  aged  cook  snorted  contemptuously.  "What  I  is, 
I  is,  Miss  Susie.  I'se  gwine  ter  yer  Uncle  Derrell's,  I 
is." 

The  children  gazed  open-eyed.  "Are  you  goin'  to 
cook  for  him  'n'  Aunt  Eloise?"  asked  Pelham. 

"Sho'  I  is,  honey!  Dey  gotter  have  mah  cookin', 
Mister  Derrell  he  says." 

The  noise  of  the  creaking  wagons  drawn  up  at  the 
side  door  claimed  the  children's  attention.  They  ran  out 
to  watch  the  first  loading,  hoping  to  be  allowed  to  help. 

Paul  followed  briskly,  thoroughly  at  home  as  an  execu- 
tive, issuing  his  orders  with  precision.  His  active  mind 
ranged  even  at  this  absorbing  moment.  Well,  he  was 
leaving  a  slate  wiped  clean!  All  of  the  Jackson  invest- 
ments had  turned  out  finely;  he  has  sold  the  real  estate 
to  advantage,  so  as  to  cover  a  large  part  of  the  moun- 
tain purchase  money.  The  street  railway  stock  he  was 
still  carrying;  its  regular  income  furnished  a  safe  fund 
to  fall  back  upon. 

After  the  last  load  had  been  urged  away,  he  walked 
with  Mary  through  the  echoing  emptiness. 

"We've  been  happy  here,  Paul,"  she  observed  quietly. 

"Mm  .  .  .  yes.  Did  that  box  of  books  in  the  spare 
room  go  with  the  last  load?" 

He  hurried  up  to  make  sure. 

Mary  saw  the  children  into  their  heavy  wraps — it  was 
unusually  chilly  for  a  Jackson  October — and  young  Ike 
drove  them  down  to  the  Great  Southern  station  in  the 
old  carriage.  It  had  been  sold  to  Shanley's  Livery  Stable 
— it  would  hardly  be  the  thing  in  Adamsville;  but  the 
wife  had  had  her  way  for  once  more,  due  to  Paul's  ex- 


28  MOUNTAIN 

pansive  satisfaction  at  the  smooth-running  plans,  and 
they  were  to  make  their  last  trip  as  citizens  of  Jackson 
in  the  accustomed  conveyance. 

When  they  became  settled  in  the  train,  Pelham  retold 
to  the  sisters  the  story  of  his  trip  to  the  mountain.  They 
had  never  seen  it,  and  his  colorful  narrative  fascinated. 
Mary  listened  attentively,  adding  an  occasional  touch. 

Paul  went  forward  into  the  smoking  car.  The  Dixie 
Flier  was  a  political  exchange  for  the  state,  just  before 
the  legislature  met.  There  was  always  some  one  to  listen, 
though  usually  unconvinced,  to  his  insistence  on  the  fu- 
ture prosperity  of  this  dormant  section.  Mary  heard  his 
nervous,  energetic  laugh  sound  out,  when  the  train  stopped 
at  some  crossroads  station  to  pick  up  a  giggling  group 
of  ginghamed  farm-girls  and  stooped  country  elders. 

The  children  were  quiet  now.  Across  the  aisle  the  baby 
lay  with  his  head  in  Nell's  lap ;  Sue  was  stretched  out  on 
the  seat  facing  them,  flushed  cheek  pillowed  on  cindery 
hand,  brown  eyes  closed.  Pell  sat  beside  his  mother,  his 
dreamy  face  pressed  against  the  smudged  car  pane, 
watching  the  flickering  landscape  sway  by. 

They  were  beautiful  .  .  .  her  children.  But  the  cost 
to  her  ambitions  had  been  heavy.  Her  vague  dreams  of 
a  career,  cherished  while  she  was  at  art  school,  had  been 
shoved  far  into  the  future.  She  realized,  with  a  sigh, 
that  she  could  never  overtake  them.  Perhaps  some  one 
of  the  children, — perhaps  the  little  son  at  her  side, — 
would  show  the  same  talent ;  in  him  she  might  realize  her 
own  hid  longings. 

It  hurt  her  to  leave  the  quiet  home  town  she  had  al- 
ways known  and  loved,  for  the  restless,  youthful  city, 
big  with  the  future.  It  was  the  second  time  that  she  had 
felt  wholly  uprooted  from  her  former  life.  Home  days 
with  Paul  and  his  urging  aggressiveness  were  vastly 
different  from  the  placid,  considerate  atmosphere  of  the 


THE  JUDSONS  29 

old  Barbour  plantation.  There,  a  sharp  word  had  been 
unknown.  Her  kindly,  courtly  father,  the  sweet  quiet 
mother,  the  gay-hearted  brothers  and  sisters, — there  was 
an  unbridgeable  chasm  between  these  and  the  push  of 
her  married  life. 

And  now  again  a  change.  .  .  . 

Paul  had  a  grasp  of  things,  a  will  to  shove  his  way 
over  all  obstacles,  a  single-ideaed  vision  of  a  high  goal, 
that,  she  believed,  could  not  fail  to  win  for  him  the  suc- 
cess that  he  sought.  She  sometimes  wondered  if  the 
gentler  bringing-up  that  had  been  hers  would  not  have 
been  better  for  the  children.  But  that  could  not  happen. 
They,  she,  were  to  be  a  part  of  the  swell,  the  hurried, 
assertive  course  of  Adamsville.  She  was  glad  she  would 
be  there  to  guard  her  little  ones :  they  would  need  all  she 
could  do. 

A  long  whistle  woke  her  from  her  reverie.  She  looked 
out;  the  dusk  had  softened  the  countryside  until  it  was 
a  dull  blur,  shot  with  irregular  streaky  lights. 

Her  husband  shouldered  briskly  back  from  the  smok- 
ing car.  "This  is  Hazelton,  Mary,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"Adamsville  next!" 


IV 


THE  Judsons  blended  easily  into  the  life  on  the  moun- 
tain. 

Paul  took  it  upon  himself  to  plan  and  arrange  all  the 
details  of  the  new  home.  Mary  found  her  wishes  un- 
consulted,  when  furniture  was  to  be  placed  or  purchased. 

Much  of  the  furnishings  of  the  Jackson  house  he 
used  in  the  new  "Hillcrest  Cottage."  The  dining-room 
suite,  with  its  stately,  ornate  sideboard  and  carved  chairs, 
was  rearranged  in  the  bay-windowed  corner  room,  over- 
looking the  long  vista  of  Bragg  Valley.  The  diners 
looked  out  on  the  pigmy  furnace  smokestacks  punctuat- 
ing the  dun  smoke-mist.  The  children's  rooms,  the  three 
chief  bedrooms,  and  the  living-room  furniture  remained 
unaltered. 

Upon  the  other  things,  Paul  put  down  his  foot.  The 
library  set,  its  antique  bookcases  and  desks  curling  up 
toward  the  ceiling,  must  be  relegated  to  the  attic.  The 
mahogany  and  bird's-eye  maple  suite,  which  had  fur- 
nished the  spare  bedroom,  must  accompany  it.  The  family 
portraits,  the  china  heirlooms,  and  the  old  judge's 
musty  home  library,  in  the  same  crates  in  which  they 
had  come  from  Jackson,  were  pushed  into  the  odd-shaped 
angles  of  the  twilight  garret.  These  had  no  place  in  the 
elaborate  simplicity  of  a  country  home. 

The  study  and  library  were  fitted  up  afresh  in  dull 
quartered  oak,  with  sectional  bookcases.  New  porch 
chairs  and  lounges  for  the  wide  verandas,  Persian  rugs 
for  the  rooms  where  the  old  carpets  would  not  suffice, 
he  listed,  viewed,  and  finally  purchased.  Mary's  heart 

30 


THE  JUDSONS  31 

ached  these  days  as  she  realized  how  she  had  been 
pushed  out  of  his  living. 

The  phone  rang  one  afternoon.  "I'm  sending  out  a 
rug  for  the  library,  Mary.  Abramson's  promised  to 
get  it  there  before  five." 

"Did  you  look  at  the  one  at  Hooper's  I  told  you 
about?" 

"We'll  talk  about  that  when  I  get  home."  He  rang 
off  sharply. 

Mary  had  it  spread  out  before  he  arrived.  It  was  a 
beauty,  she  thought  ruefully;  but  it  must  have  cost  a 
mint.  And  it  didn't  go  too  well  with  the  new  bookcases 
and  desk. 

Paul  reached  home  a  little  early,  tired  and  cross  from 
a  big  deal  that  had  hung  fire  for  ten  days.  "Well,  how 
do  you  like  it?" 

"It's  a  lovely  piece  of  goods.  How  much  was  it  ?  The 
tag  was  off." 

He  walked  in  to  observe  it,  altering  its  angle  slightly. 
"It's  just  what  we  wanted.  I  think  we'll  have  another 
for  the  parlor,  too."  He  ignored  her  anxious  eyes,  and 
she  did  not  press  the  question. 

On  Sundays  Nathaniel  Guild  usually  dropped  in,  for 
a  stroll  over  the  place,  after  a  breakfast  of  eggs,  bacon, 
and  coffee  at  seven. 

There  was  so  much  they  must  plan  together ;  this  could 
be  done  only  on  the  ground.  Paul,  of  course,  was  living 
on  the  mountain,  and  his  share  in  the  land  was  much  the 
larger;  but  both  were  interested  in  the  projected  de- 
velopment, the  wide  boulevards  curving  with  the  contour 
of  the  ground,  the  advantageous  grouping  of  sites  natur- 
ally adapted  to  sloping  lawns  and  well-placed  residences. 

"You  see,  Nate,  every  shrub  I  set  out,  every  walk  we 
put  in,  every  flight  of  steps,  will  increase  the  value,  when 
we  put  it  on  the  market." 


32  MOUNTAIN 

"Waiting  a  few  years, " 

"Now's  the  time  to  begin.  Adamsville  is  spreading 
fast ;  it's  course  is  bound  to  be  this  way.  East  Highlands 
is  the  residence  section  now " 

"I  see  Mrs.  Friedman's  building  on  Haviland  Ave- 
nue  " 

"And  three  new  houses  to  go  up  on  East  Thirtieth!" 

".  .  .  It'll  take  a  lot  of  money."  His  eyes  roamed  re- 
flectively over  the  gray,  jagged  outcrop,  almost  con- 
cealed by  a  tangle  of  grape  and  blackberry  vines  and 
rangy  sumach  bushes. 

Paul  tugged  vindictively  at  a  nettle  that  had  encroached 
upon  the  path  winding  up  to  the  house, — he  carried  his 
garden  gloves  for  just  such  purposes.  "It'll  be  cleared 
before  next  summer, — all  this  half  of  it." 

On  weekday  mornings  the  master  of  the  mountain  was 
up  earlier,  hoeing  the  flower  beds  that  frilled  the  ve- 
randas, and  seeing  to  the  setting  out  of  trees  and  vines. 
After  seven  o'clock,  he  superintended  the  gangs  of  negro 
laborers  who  were  filling  and  grading  the  gap  road,  and 
the  extensions  that  bent  down  to  the  railroad  spur  on  the 
west. 

At  times,  that  first  winter,  there  were  more  than  forty 
workmen  remolding  the  mountain's  resisting  face. 
Quartz  blasted  from  the  quarry  above  the  tracks,  on  the 
Logan  land,  made  a  permanent  roadbed.  The  winter's 
settling  would  have  it  ready  for  the  final  surface  of 
dirt  after  the  spring  rains.  The  negroes  worked  for  a 
dollar  a  day;  and  Paul  often  observed  disgustedly,  after 
inspection  of  the  day's  work,  that  four-fifths  of  the  job 
had  been  done  before  eight-thirty,  when  he  left  for  the 
office  in  the  city. 

Pelham,  just  beyond  his  ninth  birthday,  found  his 
spare  time  provided  for.  He  spent  his  afternoons  and 
Saturdays  assisting  in  the  overseeing  of  the  grading. 


THE  JUDSONS  33 

His  father  believed  in  getting  him  to  work  young.  The 
mountain  would  be  his  some  day, — his  and  his  brother's 
and  sisters', — it  was  none  too  soon  to  begin  now  to 
learn  its  problems. 

When  not  at  school,  he  was  started  in,  before  six 
o'clock,  at  weed-picking.  Nell  and  Sue,  and  even  the 
baby,  could  help  here,  when  the  work  was  near  the  house. 
In  order  to  give  a  material  incentive,  the  children  were 
paid  one  cent  a  bucket  for  the  weeds.  Their  earnings 
were  banked  with  their  mother,  who  kept  the  accounts 
in  a  little  red  book,  an  object  of  especial  reverence  to 
the  involuntary  depositors. 

Pelham  was  especially  sharp  at  locating  the  big  weeds, 
their  roots  matted  with  moist  earth,  and  spreading  fan- 
like  over  the  rocks  never  far  below  the  surface.  Five 
or  six  of  these,  and  his  bucket  was  full.  Then  he  would 
lie  on  his  back,  dreaming,  his  body  registering,  through 
the  blue  cotton  pants  and  thin  shirt,  each  rock  and  hump 
on  the  ground.  He  followed  the  clouds  sailing,  like 
misty  Argoes,  over  the  placid  blue  sea  of  sky ;  he  watched 
the  crimson-capped  woodpeckers  tapping  industriously 
at  a  nearby  oak  or  hickory  trunk,  or  the  bouncing  flight 
of  flickers  from  clump  to  clump  of  bluegum  and  white- 
gum,  or  the  distant  descending  spirals  of  a  lazy  buzzard, 
answering  some  noisome  summons  to  a  hidden  and 
hideous  feast. 

"How  you  gettin'  'long,  Pell?  My  second  bucket's 
full,  an'  Susie's  almost  finished." 

He  would  reluctantly  carry  his  weeds  to  the  pile,  and 
go  back  to  the  work  and  his  dreaming. 

He  was  a  problem  to  his  energetic  father.  He  would 
start  industriously  enough,  but  the  day's  toll  always  fell 
far  below  what  was  expected.  The  parents  had  many 
conferences  over  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  the  boy,  Mary.    I  never 


34  MOUNTAIN 

used  to  loaf  like  Pelham  does.    He's  as  bad  as  a  nigger." 

"He's  only  a  boy,  Paul." 

"He's  got  to  learn  to  work." 

The  mother  sighed. 

The  son  received  ten  cents  a  week  for  keeping  the 
bedrooms  supplied  with  coal.  Several  nights  he  had 
been  routed  out  of  bed,  and  made  to  stumble  down  to 
the  coalhouse,  while  his  father  impatiently  held  the 
lantern,  to  do  the  neglected  task.  He  was  perpetually 
losing  things.  Hammers,  saws,  dewed  in  the  morning 
grass,  a  saddle  that  he  had  forgotten  to  hang  up, — these 
would  furnish  damning  indictments  of  his  carefulness. 

To  teach  him  responsibility,  the  three  newly-purchased 
crates  of  Leghorns  were  put  in  his  charge.  Many  a  time 
a  dried  water-trough  or  a  suspiciously  pecked-up  chicken- 
run,  its  last  grain  of  corn  consumed,  brought  him  into 
trouble.  Perhaps  he  had  spent  the  afternoon  whittling 
a  dagger,  or  carefully  cleaning  an  old  horse-skull  dis- 
covered under  the  green  valley  pines.  He  was  very 
proud  at  the  idea  of  possessing  the  chickens,  and  grew 
fond  of  them;  but  remembering  to  attend  to  them  was 
a  very  different  matter. 

"I  don't  never  have  any  time  for  myself,  mother,"  he 
would  complain,  after  a  scene  with  Paul.  "The  Highland 
boys  don't  have  to  work  all  the  time." 

"Your  father  is  very  busy,  Pell;  if  you  don't  help 
him,  who  will?" 

Continued  repetition  of  these  negligences  caused  tin- 
gling reminders  to  be  applied  to  the  boy.  Paul  hated  to 
whip  his  son;  he  almost  despised  himself  for  causing 
suffering  to  a  smaller  human;  but  what  was  he  to  do? 
Pelham  grew  familiar  with  the  feel  of  his  father's  belt; 
and  still  did  not,  or  could  not,  change  his  ways. 

He  could  hardly  remember  when  there  had  not  been 
some  friction  between  them.  Consciously  and  uncon- 


THE  JUDSONS  35 

sciously  he  patterned  himself  after  his  father  in  many 
things.  Paul  was  jolly  and  companionable,  whenever 
he  wished  to  be;  he  was  an  unusually  clean  representa- 
tive of  a  class  that  prided  itself  upon  its  chivalry  and 
courage.  These  traits  the  boy  followed. 

Then,  too,  his  father  had  shown  him  inordinate  atten- 
tion, as  the  first  son,  ever  since  his  birth.  This  masculine 
approval,  added  to  the  adulation  of  adoring  women  rela- 
tives, exalted  his  already  high  opinion  of  himself,  made 
him  selfishly  demand  more  than  his  share. 

His  mother's  love,  for  instance, — there  were  times 
when  he  wanted  to  feel  he  had  all  of  it.  When  his  father 
was  off  on  business  trips,  he  became,  young  as  he  was, 
the  head  of  the  house.  It  fretted  him  to  be  reduced  again 
to  a  humble  subordinate  position. 

He  could  sleep  in  Mary's  room,  when  Paul  was  away ; 
this  privilege  he  lost  on  the  return.  He  hardly  realized 
how  this  tinged  his  thoughts  with  dislike  of  the  father. 
The  parents  had  a  vast,  almost  a  godlike,  part  in  his 
life, — as  in  the  lives  of  all  children.  Whatever  daily 
good  or  ill  he  received,  came  primarily  from  them;  his 
own  efforts  counted  only  as  they  pleased  or  displeased 
the  deities.  What  he  did  not  receive,  he  blamed  upon  his 
father;  and  he  often  dwelt  upon  the  happy  home  life 
should  Paul  die,  or  disappear.  He  could  earn  a  living 
for  mother,  and  make  a  loving  home  for  her.  .  .  . 

These  things  created  an  unseen  and  growing  breach 
between  the  two. 

When  he  first  came  to  Adamsville,  Paul  had  had  to  go 
out  and  make  business  for  himself.  He  had  allied  him- 
self to  James  Snell,  a  fidgety,  pushing  real  estate  oper- 
ator who  was  familiar  with  the  newcomer's  success  in 
Jackson.  "The  Snell-Judson  Real  Estate  and  Develop- 
ment Company"  came  into  existence;  Paul  joined  the 
Commercial  Club,  the  Country  Club,  and  met  here  as 


36  MOUNTAIN 

many  people  as  he  could.  Before  the  winter  was  over, 
he  found  his  hands  full.  Perpetual  application  to  the 
complications  of  real  estate  problems  throughout  the 
county  was  wearing;  which  made  him  less  liable  than 
ever  to  put  up  with  Pelham's  shortcomings.  As  the 
spring  grew  on,  and  the  matter  did  not  mend,  he  called 
his  son  into  his  room  early  one  morning.  "You  left  the 
cow-gate  unlatched  last  night,  Pelham." 

The  boy  sensed  the  gravity  of  his  father's  tone,  and 
grew  at  once  apprehensive.  "I  thought  I  shut  it, 
father " 

"Peter  had  to  spend  an  hour  looking  for  them,  this 
morning.  This  is  the  second  time  in  a  week." 

The  boy  became  voluble.  "The  other  time,  father,  you 
know  I  told  you " 

"Yes,  you  told  me.  You're  always  telling  me.  Did 
you  take  that  scythe  down  to  be  sharpened  yesterday  ?" 

"I  meant  to — I'll  take  it  this  afternoon,  sure." 

"You'll  take  it  before  you  go  to  school  this  morning." 

"Father —if  I'm  tardy  — 

"You  can  explain  to  Professor  Gloster  you  made  your- 
self late." 

The  boy's  lip  pouted;  a  whimper  trembled  behind  it. 

"Twice  this  week  you've  failed  to  hoe  the  spring 
garden.  Do  you  know  who  watered  your  chickens  last 
night?" 

Pelham  was  silent.  The  list  was  growing  too  large 
to  explain  away,  apt  as  he  had  become  in  excuses. 

"I  had  a  talk  with  your  mother  yesterday."  The 
father  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  his  eyes  down,  thump- 
ing a  yard-stick  against  his  left  thumb. 

So  it  was  going  to  be  the  yard-stick !  That  wouldn't 
hurt, — not  like  the  belt,  or  a  hickory  switch,  anyway. 
Pelham  began  to  frame  his  voice  for  the  proper  mingling 
of  crying  and  entreaty.  The  more  you  seemed  to  be 


THE  JUDSONS  37 

hurt,  the  less  you  got.  Only,  you  had  to  take  the  first 
two  or  three  quietly,  or  father  would  see  through  you. 

The  elder  walked  over  to  the  bureau,  and  placed  the 
measure  beside  the  rose-shears  and  the  spraying  can. 
No,  it  was  not  going  to  be  the  yard-stick.  The  boy  looked 
furtively  around ;  there  was  no  other  weapon  in  sight. 

Paul  continued,  "Your  conduct  bothers  your  mother 
as  much  as  it  does  me.  We  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  you.  You're  almost  ten  now,  .  .  .  old  enough  to  be 
trusted.  You  know  you  can't  be.  Your  mother  thinks 
I  ought  to  give  you  another  chance.  I  promised  her  I 
would."  His  tones  grew  crisper,  more  biting.  "I  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you.  You're  dog  mean.  You 
think  you  can  impose  on  me.  I  know  it.  And  I'll  have 
no  more  of  this  slovenly  work-dodging  around  my  place." 

He  had  worked  himself  into  a  rage,  by  this  time;  but 
his  tones  were  icily  cold  and  correct.  "This  confounded 
laziness  has  got  to  stop.  It's  your  job  to  stop  it,  do  you 
hear?  And  if  you  don't  do  it  within  a  week, — you  know 
I  mean  what  I  say, — I'll  thrash  you  every  morning,  until 
you  do !" 

He  rose  menacingly.    Pelham  shrank  from  him. 

"I'm  not  going  to  touch  you, — this  morning.  I  prom- 
ised your  mother  I  wouldn't.  But  this  is  a  last  warning." 

For  the  first  few  days,  the  son's  conduct  was  unim- 
peachable. He  attended  strictly  to  his  duties,  and  ac- 
complished all  of  them  passably.  But  one  afternoon,  he 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  play  ball  with  the  East 
Highland  boys,  and  entirely  forgot  to  leave  an  order 
for  linseed  oil  and  chicken-feed  at  the  food  store  near 
the  livery  stable.  When  Saturday  came,  he  worked  ir- 
ritably around  the  tomato  plants  until  eleven  o'clock. 
Then  he  sneaked  off  to  Shadow  Creek  with  some  boys 
from  the  Gloster  School.  He  was  back  by  four,  and 
tried  desperately  to  finish  his  tasks  by  nightfall ;  but  sev- 


38  MOUNTAIN 

eral  were  forgotten  entirely.  When  no  punishment  fol- 
lowed, he  grew  careless  again. 

Paul  was  detained  at  the  office  Monday  night.  Just 
before  eleven,  the  telephone's  tinkle  aroused  Mary. 
"Coming  right  away,  dear." 

With  a  start  she  wondered  if  Pelham's  tasks  had  been 
performed.  She  made  the  rounds.  Not  a  thing  done! 
Skuttles  empty,  water-trough  unfilled,  and  the  hungry 
chickens  pecking  desperately  among  the  hard  pebbles  in 
the  run,  after  her  light  had  aroused  them.  There  would 
be  time  for  her  to  do  them,  if  she  hurried.  .  .  . 

She  had  hardly  finished  washing  coal-grime  and 
cracked  cornmeal  from  her  hands,  when  Paul's  call 
sounded  in  front. 

Through  the  opened  front  door  came  his  faint  voice. 
"Come  down  to  the  steps,  Mary."  She  caught  up  the 
lantern,  and  picked  her  way  down  to  him. 

"I  told  that  boy  to  oil  these  hinges,  sure,  this  after- 
noon. And  look  at  that  pile  of  trash, — he  hardly  touched 
it.  Here's  the  shovel.  He  hasn't  done  a  single  chore 
since  I  left  the  mountain." 

Mary  lighted  the  way  back  to  the  house,  thoroughly 
upset. 

Two  mornings  later,  Paul  called  the  boy.  "Come  into 
my  room,  Pelham."  The  boy  followed,  a  sick  feeling  at 
his  stomach. 

His  father  twisted  a  hand  within  Pelham's  shirt-collar, 
and  snapped  off  his  own  belt.  The  loose  end  of  the  belt 
danced  and  stung  against  the  boy's  bare  legs.  His  fa- 
ther's words  came  to  him  brokenly  and  explosively.  "Pay 
no  attention  to  what  I  say.  .  .  .  Your  confounded  negli- 
gence. .  .  .  Continually  soldiering  on  me.  You're  mean 
as  gar-broth." 

By  this,  Pell  gave  way  entirely.  The  agonizing  pain 
burnt  his  bare  calves,  and  radiated  up  his  legs.  He 


THE  JUDSONS  39 

punctuated  the  blows  with  sobbing  explanations,  and 
promises  never  to  let  it  happen  again.  At  the  intensity 
of  the  pain,  he  tried  to  intercept  the  blows  with  his 
hands.  Half  of  the  time  the  lashings  left  red  welts  on 
his  wrists  and  arms,  and  one  stroke  caught  a  little  finger, 
twisting  it  back  until  he  was  sure  it  was  broken. 

"I'll  teach  you  to  impose  on  your  father.  .  .  .  You 
won't  obey  me,  will  you  ?  .  .  ." 

At  last  it  was  over,  and  Pelham  crumpled,  sobbing  and 
shuddering,  against  the  footboard  of  the  bed. 

"Go  down  to  the  chicken-house,  and  attend  to  your 
work,"  his  father  ordered  him.  Paul  Judson,  torn  with 
anger  and  self-disgust,  turned  back  to  the  boy.  "I'm 
going  to  thrash  you  every  morning  for  a  month.  Maybe 
that  will  do  you  some  good." 

After  a  few  minutes,  gulping  down  the  stinging  mem- 
ories and  black  bitterness  against  what  he  felt  was  rank 
injustice,  Pelham  limped  out  to  his  duties.  As  he  watered 
the  hens,  and  scattered  cracked  corn  before  the  fuzzy 
yellow  balls  scratching  around  them,  waves  of  self-pity 
flooded  him.  He  wept  into  the  chicken-trough  and  into 
his  handkerchief,  until  it  was  a  damp  salt-smelly  wad. 

Morning  after  morning  this  kept  up.  Now  it  was  in 
his  own  room,  his  father's,  the  stable,  or  by  the  spring 
duck-houses ;  now  a  slipper,  a  shingle,  the  hated  belt,  or 
a  freshly  cut  withe.  Once  it  was  the  stable  broom,  which 
broke  over  his  back  at  the  second  stroke, — that  morning 
the  whipping  ended  abruptly.  He  wept,  pleaded,  ex- 
cused himself,  begged  to  have  another  chance;  nothing 
could  shake  the  stern  will  of  his  father,  and  the  merciless 
schedule  of  pain. 

Mary  tried  to  keep  busy  at  some  place  where  she  could 
not  hear  his  cries.  But  they  pursued  her  from  room  to 
room. 

Pelham  wore  his  stockings  to  school, — they  hid  the 


40  MOUNTAIN 

old  bruises,  and  the  fresh  welts.  Night  after  night  he 
cried  himself  to  sleep.  And  the  mother,  stealing  in  to 
see  the  children  safely  in  bed,  would  feel  all  the  agony 
seared  on  her  heart,  at  the  sight  of  the  tear-channeled 
boyish  cheeks.  She  worried  and  brooded  over  the  favor- 
ite son,  until  bluish  depressions  pouched  beneath  her 
eyes,  and  a  hard  look  came  into  them  as  they  followed 
her  husband  around  his  home  tasks.  He,  in  turn,  be- 
came boisterously  loud-spoken,  and  made  a  vast  amount 
of  noise  stamping  on  the  halls  and  porches.  It  was  a 
gruesome  three  weeks  for  all. 

At  the  end  of  this  period,  Pelham  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  He  kissed  his  mother  good  night,  clinging  around 
her  neck  and  pressing  passionate  kisses  upon  her  lips, — 
it  would  be  the  last  time  he  would  ever  receive  this 
parting  kiss,  he  told  himself.  Then  he  knotted  up,  in 
an  old  sweater,  his  clean  shirts  and  a  change  of  under- 
clothes, three  handkerchiefs,  his  stamp  album,  and 
"Grimm's  Fairy  Stories,"  and  hid  them  under  the  bed. 
To-morrow  he  would  leave  home  forever. 

While  his  mother  was  seeing  to  the  breakfast  table, 
he  slipped  into  her  room,  his  eyes  still  red  from  the 
morning's  session  with  his  father.  He  unlocked  her 
drawer,  and  took  out  of  her  purse  the  three  one  dollar 
bills  he  found.  On  the  red  book,  he  knew,  he  was  en- 
titled to  more  than  eight  dollars,  but  this  would  do.  He 
slipped  in  a  note  he  had  written  the  night  before,  and 
hid  the  bulging  sweater  in  a  rock  beside  the  front  path. 

Walking  to  school  with  Nell,  he  pledged  her  to  silence 
and  then  told  her  he  was  going  to  run  away  that  after- 
noon. 

"That's  wicked,  Pell."  Her  wide  eyes  were  horror- 
filled. 

"Would  you  let  them  whip  you  every  day  of  your 
life?"  He  turned  on  her  fiercely. 


THE  JUDSONS  41 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Jackson,  or  Columbus,  or  somewhere, — anything 
to  get  away  from  here.  You'll  look  after  my  little 
chickies,  won't  you,  sister?" 

She  promised. 

The  girls  were  dismissed  for  lunch  at  twelve,  and  as 
Pelham  had  only  half  an  hour,  their  mother  usually  met 
them  at  the  big  gate,  and  walked  back  to  the  house  with 
them.  Nell  waited  till  Sue  had  run  ahead,  then  betrayed 
the  morning's  confidence  with  maternal  conscientious- 
ness. 

Mary  went  at  once  to  her  drawer, — she  guessed  how 
Pelham  had  gotten  funds.  She  put  on  her  hat  and 
hurried  in  to  the  office,  carrying  with  her  the  boy's  note. 

Her  lips  were  set,  and  her  voice  difficult  to  control, 
when  she  faced  her  husband  across  the  bevelled  glass 
that  covered  his  desk.  "Read  this,  Paul,"  handing  him 
the  crumpled  message. 

It  was  written  painstakingly  in  the  boy's  unformed 
upright  script,  a  youthful  imitation  of  his  father's  dis- 
tinctive hand: 

"Dearest  mother: — 

I  can  not  stand  any  moar  whipings.  Hollis 
can  have  my  things  wen  he  growes  up.  I  will 
come  back  as  soon  as  father  is  ded. 

Affexionately  your  son, 
PELHAM  JUDSON." 

Before  he  had  time  to  comment,  the  mother  spoke. 
"You  know  I  advised  against  this — this  brutal,  cold- 
blooded punishment  of  my  son.  This  is  what  has  come 
of  it." 

"Where  is  he? " 

She  bit  her  lip  to  keep  from  crying.  "He's  gone;  he 


42  MOUNTAIN 

may  be  dead,  for  all  I  know.  He  told  Nell  he  might  go 
to  Jackson.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  go  down  to  the  station.  He  can't  leave  before 
the  4:17." 

"Promise  me  you  won't  whip  the  baby  any  more.  .  .  ." 
Her  voice  shook,  in  spite  of  herself.  "I'll  go  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'll  study  it  out.  ...  I'd  better 
go  alone." 

At  the  far  end  of  the  waiting-room, — it  lacked  half  an 
hour  to  train-time, — he  saw  at  once  the  slight  figure. 
Pelham  had  invested  in  a  bag  of  bananas,  and  was  dis- 
consolately eating  the  second.  As  he  saw  his  father's 
figure  approaching,  he  wilted  weakly  back  in  the  seat. 

"Going  away,  Pelham?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  was  surprised  at  the  lack  of  interest  in  his  father's 
voice. 

The  older  man  sat  down  beside  him,  and  spoke  care- 
fully. "As  soon  as  you  want  to  leave  home,  Pelham,  you 
may.  If  you're  going  to  Jackson,  or  anywhere  else, 
father'll  be  glad  to  write  on  and  see  that  you  get  a  job 
of  some  kind.  But  you  are  pretty  small  to  be  starting 
out  now." 

The  boy  choked  a  wordless  assent. 

"I  think  you'd  better  come  home  to-night,  and  think 
over  the  matter.  If  you  want  to  go  to-morrow,  I'll  be 
glad  to  help." 

Pelham  rose  obediently,  clutching  the  draggled  bundle, 
and  slipped  a  confiding  hand  into  his  father's.  Nothing 
was  said  about  the  whippings ;  they  ceased. 


V 

TT7"HEN  summer  came,  Pelham  spent  his  vacation  at 

*  "  Grandfather  Barbour's  home.  He  made  the  jour- 
ney alone,  in  the  conductor's  care. 

Joyfully  he  hopped  out  at  the  station,  and  drove  up 
the  leisurely  oak  avenue  to  the  big  house.  He  had  his 
own  cool  little  room  again,  fragrant  with  the  honey- 
suckle blossoms  beneath  the  window,  and  the  scent  of 
peach  blossoms  from  the  near  end  of  the  orchard. 

Every  summer  that  he  could  remember,  he  had  spent 
with  these  adored  grandparents.  Edward  Barbour  and 
his  young  wife  had  come  to  Jackson  two  decades  after 
the  first  Judson.  At  first  their  home  had  been  only  a 
large  bedroom  and  dining-room.  Then  a  porch  had 
been  added,  and  two  more  rooms  to  the  south,  where 
the  orchard  began  now.  The  first  pantry  had  been  the 
piano  box,  connected  by  a  shed  to  the  kitchen  and  back 
porch.  The  north  wing  had  followed,  and  the  upstairs, — 
until  now  the  sectional  house  fitted  so  well  into  the  trees 
and  vines,  that  it  seemed  to  have  sprouted  and  grown  as 
easily  and  naturally  as  they. 

His  cousins,  Alfred,  his  own  age,  and  Lil,  a  year 
younger,  came  up  every  day  while  he  stayed  here ;  Uncle 
Jimmy's  house  was  visible  beyond  the  last  pear  tree,  down 
nearer  the  Greenville  Road. 

There  were  strawberries  in  the  garden,  big  luscious 
fruit  soppy  with  the  dew  and  gleaming  like  scarlet  Easter 
eggs  in  the  damp  leaves. 

He  learned  to  help  old  Dick  harness  up  the  buggy,  or 

43 


44  MOUNTAIN 

watched  'Liza  spurt  the  warm  creamy  milk  pattering 
into  the  wide-mouthed  pails. 

After  breakfast,  Grandma  let  him  trowel  in  the  pansy 
or  salvia  beds, — her  flowers  were  the  talk  of  the  neigh- 
bors,— and  she  gave  him  a  little  bed  of  his  own,  where 
portulacca,  larkspur,  sticky  petunias,  star-flowered  cypress 
vines,  and  rose-geranium  and  heliotrope  slips  formed  a 
crowded  kaleidoscope  of  shape  and  color. 

There  were  other  occupations  for  restless  mind  and 
fingers.  His  father  might  have  laughed  at  his  sewing, 
and  openly  despised  him  for  it.  But  Grandmother  took 
time  from  her  embroidery  to  teach  him  the  briar-stitch 
and  cat-stitch,  and  the  quick  decoration  of  the  chain. 
His  mother  kissed  the  grimed,  badly  embroidered  pansy 
and  wild-rose  squares  that  were  folded  into  his  occasional 
happy  notes. 

On  rainy  days  the  children  played  indoors.  Spools, — 
was  there  ever  such  a  house  for  spools !  Grandmother 
had  been  saving  them  since  the  war.  Endless  cigar  boxes 
rattled  with  spools  of  all  sizes,  big  red  linen  thread  ones, 
handy  middle-sized  ones,  baby  silk-twist  bobbins.  These 
were  emptied  upon  the  sitting-room  floor :  houses,  trains, 
forts,  whole  cities  flourished  in  the  narrow  boundaries  of 
the  rag  carpet.  Grandfather  kept  crayons,  scissors,  and 
a  store  of  old  Scribners'  and  Harpers',  which  were  his 
without  pleading.  And  parchesi  boards,  and  backgam- 
mon— the  place  was  a  paradise  to  the  boy. 

He  delighted  in  long  rambles  with  his  grandfather. 
The  old  gentleman,  after  the  war,  had  combined  manag- 
ing his  small  farm  with  running  the  main  village  store 
in  Jackson.  He  had  long  given  up  the  latter ;  his  simple, 
honest  Christian  methods  of  dealing  with  his  neighbors 
had  been  supplanted  by  more  up-to-date  ethics,  although 
the  store's  old  name  was  preserved. 

The  two  visited  the  corn  and  cotton  fields  behind  the 


THE  JUDSONS  45 

house,  the  level  swards  of  the  pebbly  river,  the  solemn 
privetted  walks  throughout  the  cemetery.  Here  genera- 
tions of  dead  Jacksonians  restfully  scattered  into  the 
prolific,  dusty  mother  that  gave  them  birth. 

Pelham  learned  much  on  these  walks, — the  birds,  trees, 
stories  of  dead  heroes,  episodes  of  the  war,  and  the 
stirring  times  when  the  raiders  had  overrun  the  village. 
Grandmother  had  hidden  two  brothers,  one  wounded,  for 
weeks  in  her  cellar,  all  unknown  to  the  Northern  visitors 
who  forced  themselves  upon  her.  The  boy  absorbed 
indiscriminately  the  accumulated  store  of  eighty  years  of 
active  life. 

After  supper,  the  sweet-faced  grandmother  would  slip 
a  knitted  wrap  over  his  shoulders,  and  walk  out  with 
him  in  the  great  oak-surrounded  square  before  the  house. 
She  taught  Pelham  how  to  find  the  North  Star,  from 
the  bottom  of  the  Big  Dipper ;  and  then  the  Little  Dipper, 
that  had  been  twisted  back  until  the  Milky  Way  spilled 
from  it.  He  learned  to  recognize  the  big  Dragon 
waddling  across  the  summer  heavens,  and  many  of  the 
dwellers  in  the  strange  skyey  menagerie.  These  were 
days  and  nights  of  wonder  and  beauty. 

He  longed  to  stay  here  forever,  away  from  the  acidity 
of  his  father's  commands,  and  the  ever-present  fear  of 
the  belt.  But  as  the  autumn  came,  he  wept  his  farewells 
and  went  back. 

Until  his  return  from  that  first  absence  at  Jackson, 
he  did  not  realize  how  the  mountain  had  claimed  him. 
He  maintained  a  mild,  glowing  regard  for  the  grand- 
parents' plantation;  it  was  free  from  the  irksome  pa- 
ternal irritations  that  scarred  his  home  days.  But  its 
appeal  did  not  go  down  to  the  deepest  parts  of  him. 

With  the  mountain  it  was  different.  Not  merely  Hill- 
crest  Cottage,  although  he  felt  bound  to  every  board  and 
stone  of  it ;  not  even  merely  the  Forty  Acres,  the  family 


46  MOUNTAIN 

name  for  the  fenced,  pathed,  and  parked  half  of  the 
original  eighty  on  which  the  house  stood ;  but  the  whole 
mountain,  its  rises  and  unexpected  hollows,  and  the 
thicketed  valleys  that  drooped  sharply  away  toward  the 
East, — he  responded  to  all  of  these.  The  rest  of  the 
Judsons  had  taken  the  cottage  and  the  Forty  as  their 
home.  But  this  was  only  a  small  part  of  home  to  the 
eldest  son. 

The  mountain  became  his  castle,  his  playground,  his 
haven  of  refuge,  the  land  of  his  fancy.  He  was  its 
child,  and  it  was  his  mother. 

He  got  along  better  with  his  father  that  winter.  Dili- 
gent application  to  his  school  work  and  his  tasks  at 
home  was  the  price  of  liberty  on  the  mountain.  Two 
weekday  afternoons,  and  Sunday  after  midday  dinner, 
were  allowed  him.  He  filled  every  minute  of  these 
respites. 

The  little  Barbour  cousins  spent  Thanksgiving  week 
with  the  children.  Pelham  showed  them  all  the  treas- 
ured spots  on  the  mountain.  To  them,  even  the  walk  up 
the  hill  was  an  adventure,  as  they  explored  the  long 
sloping  dummyline  road,  through  stiff  palisades  of  golden 
rod  and  Flora's  paint-brush,  the  stalks  silver-dusty  from 
the  nipping  November  winds,  and  ready  to  scatter  at  the 
tentative  poking  of  a  rotting  stick,  or  the  breath  of  a 
skimmed  stone. 

One  wonderful  picnic  they  had  to  Shadow  Creek, 
before  the  relatives  returned  home.  All  drove  over  in  a 
wagon  to  the  deserted  mill  dam,  Aunt  Sarah,  grumbling 
her  good-humored  threats  to  return  to  Jackson  and  leave 
"dis  mountain  foolishness,"  riding  along  to  mind  the 
children.  Jimmy  learned  the  first  few  swimming  strokes 
in  the  cool,  brownish  pond;  Pelham  and  the  older  girls 
had  long  been  going  in  regularly  with  their  father,  and 
were  fast  becoming  expert. 


THE  JUDSONS  47 

A  baby  came  in  April, — another  boy,  named  Edward 
after  Mary's  father.  This  kept  the  mother  from  joining 
their  rambles,  so  it  was  necessary  for  Pelham  to  devise 
the  games  without  her  resourceful  assistance. 

Here  the  boy's  impelling  imagination,  added  to  his 
knowledge  of  fairy  stories,  came  to  his  aid.  All  the 
myth-creating  urge  of  the  past  moved  in  him.  He  peo- 
pled the  varied  crests  and  valleys  with  these  volatile 
companions,  visible  only  in  the  dusk  out  of  the  corner 
of  a  friendly  eye.  The  V-shaped  slope  from  the  gap  to 
the  railroad  was  Dwarfland;  Hollis  was  their  prince. 
Crenshaw  Hill,  clear  to  the  Locust  Hedge,  was  Yellow 
Fairyland ;  a  chum,  Lane  Cullom,  a  year  older  than  Pel- 
ham,  assumed  leadership  over  these  beings.  Black-haired 
Nell,  when  she  could  be  got  to  play,  was  the  princess  of 
the  Black  Fairies,  whose  haunts  were  in  the  outcrop 
before  Hillcrest  Cottage.  Sue  was  anything  needed  to 
complete  the  story, — a  mere  mortal,  the  queen  of  the 
moon-fairies,  or  of  the  rock  gnomes.  Pelham,  himself, 
in  crimson  outing  flannel  cloak,  was  the  king  and  lord 
of  the  Red  Fairies.  They  were  the  real  spirits  of  the 
mountain,  and  of  fire,  and  came  in  their  red  chariots 
down  the  flaming  lanes  of  the  sunset  sky,  to  battle  for 
their  dispossessed  heritage  against  all  the  forces  of  night 
and  darkness. 

The  fights  were  not  all  bloodless.  On  one  of  these 
assaults,  as  he  charged  with  brittly  reed  lances  up  the 
precipitous  quartz  quarry,  he  stumbled  and  drove  a 
stiff  bit  of  stubble  into  a  nostril.  It  bled  furiously,  until 
his  stained  handkerchief  was  the  hue  of  his  crimson 
mantle.  But  even  the  three  stitches  which  the  doctor 
took  were  only  an  incident  in  the  noble  warfare. 

The  endless  sieges,  ambuscades,  tourneys  and  ad- 
ventures filled  volumes — literally  volumes;  for  Pelham 
wrote,  on  folded  tablet  paper,  a  history  of  the  fairy 


48  MOUNTAIN 

occupation  of  the  mountain,  copiously  illustrated  with 
pencil  and  crayon.  It  was  one  of  the  regrets  of  his 
later  years  that  this  history  had  disappeared  completely; 
even  its  details  vanished  from  his  memory. 

Always  he  directed  the  sports.  They  varied  with  his 
invention ;  spear-tilting  at  barrel  hoops  around  the  circle 
of  the  daisy  bed,  bow  and  arrow  warfare  at  Indian 
enemies  hulking  and  skulking  behind  pokeberry  bushes, 
cross-country  running  to  Shadow  Creek  and  back,  when 
he  became  interested  in  this  at  the  high  school, — these 
were  only  a  few  of  the  games. 

His  name-giving  had  a  curiously  permanent  effect. 
Dwarfland  never  lost  the  title  he  gave  it,  nor  Billygoat 
Hill,  where  he  and  Lane  surrounded  a  patriarchal  billy 
and  almost  caught  him. 

When  his  father  became  busied  with  planning  the  sub- 
division of  the  mountain  lands,  to  throw  them  upon  the 
market,  the  imitative  boy  divided  Crenshaw  Hill  into 
"Coaldale  the  Second."  He  borrowed,  without  permis- 
sion, enough  deeds  and  mortgages  from  the  real-estate 
office  to  run  his  city  for  a  year,  and  acted  as  seller,  pro- 
bate judge,  and  clearing  gang.  The  streets,  two  feet 
wide,  were  carefully  walled  from  the  lots  by  the  loose 
outcrop  stones.  There  was  a  hotel,  a  court  house,  a 
furnace,  and  multiplying  homes  and  stores. 

Finally  the  sisters  and  brother  lost  interest,  since  only 
Pelham  could  untangle  the  intricacies  of  the  allotments. 
It  was  all  cleared  away  three  years  later  by  a  real  clear- 
ing gang,  although  this  part  of  the  hill  continued  to  be 
called  Coaldale  Second. 

The  mountain  was  a  lonely  place  for  children,  after 
all.  Even  though  Lane  braved  the  temporary  isolation, 
and  the  girls  occasionally  had  spend-the-day  parties  at 
the  cottage,  it  was  usually  deserted  except  for  Pelham 
and  his  imaginary  companions. 


THE  JUDSONS  49 

He  learned  all  of  its  moods.  There  was  the  plentiful 
springtime,  when  it  blossomed  a  flood  of  unexpected 
beauty.  Rich  summer  brought  blackberries,  dewberries, 
and  hills  rioting  with  azalea,  and  jasmine.  Autumn  fur- 
nished muscadines  by  the  creek  beds,  hydrangeas,  and  the 
sudden  glory  of  changing  leaves.  Winter  was  a  black- 
boughed  multiplication  of  the  hilly  vistas. 

The  boys  lived  in  dog-tents  several  summers.  Old 
Peter  built  them  a  tree  house  in  a  big  oak  near  a  fallen 
wild  cherry  tree;  when  they  slept  here,  the  floor  rocked 
and  swung  all  night ;  they  were  like  sailors  buoyed  upon 
a  sea  of  restless  leaves.  Thus  the  nights  revealed  the 
mountain  as  personally  and  intimately  as  the  days. 

This  close  contact  with  it  had  another  effect.  It  cut 
Pelham  off  effectually  from  the  city  boys,  and  forced 
him  to  a  high  degree  of  self-reliance,  both  as  to  body 
and  mind.  The  wiry  legs  toughened,  the  arms  grew  long 
and  able  to  swing  him  from  bough  to  bough  of  the  big 
trees,  the  shoulders  spread  strongly  apart.  His  surplus 
energy  was  transmuted  into  an  adaptable,  powerful  body. 

Greater  than  this  was  the  other  effect.  He  felt  safe, 
with  the  mountain  as  ally;  not  even  his  father  could 
touch  him,  in  its  secret  haunts.  An  unconscious  sense  of 
self-completeness,  a  rooted  belief  in  his  own  and  every 
person's  liberty,  became  an  integer  of  his  faith. 

Thus  he  grew  away  from  all  other  people,  except  his 
mother.  To  her  he  was  drawn  closer,  particularly  when 
her  relationship  with  Paul  grew  strained.  This  had  been 
especially  obvious  after  the  birth  of  Ned,  the  fifth  baby; 
the  father  had  had  sharp  words  with  Mary  about  it. 

"It  was  all  right  for  Mother  Barbour  to  have  six; 
people  had  more  children  then.  Two  of  them  died,  any- 
how. It's  different  now." 

"But,  Paul, "  The  calloused  injustice  of  it  silenced 

her. 


50  MOUNTAIN 

He  watched  her  averted  face.  "I  see  Mamie  Charl- 
ton's  getting  divorced.  Jack  got  tired  of  her  and  her 
eternal  children.  I  saw  her  the  other  day.  .  .  .  She's 
getting  old.  Too  many  children  responsible  for  it." 

She  flinched  dumbly  before  his  brutality. 

He  spoke  savagely,  through  clenched  teeth.  "It's  your 
fault.  You  ought  to  be  more  careful." 

Her  womanhood  rose  in  rebellion.  "Any  time  you're 
tired  of  me,  Paul, " 

"It's  easy  to  talk."  He  laughed  abruptly.  "And  since 
the  business  is  doing  so  well,  there  are  always  younger 
women, " 

He  did  not  finish — her  look  silenced  him. 

With  no  woman  to  confide  in,  Mary  turned  to  her  son, 
rather  than  to  the  girls.  His  whole  horizon  was  filled 
with  love  for  her  mellow  brown-eyed  beauty,  and  for 
the  mothering  mountain  that  came  to  stand  for  her  in 
his  fancies. 

On  the  walks  with  his  father,  Paul's  mind  was  filled 
with  thoughts  of  the  planned  development  of  the  land 
for  residential  purposes,  while  Pelham  was  busied  with 
fantasies  of  fairies  and  knightly  escapades.  Father  and 
son  were  continually  jarring  over  little  things;  the  es- 
trangement widened. 

"I  think  we'll  continue  the  gap  road  as  an  avenue  to 
the  railroad  tracks.  Logan  Avenue,  we'll  call  it.  Mr. 
Guild  thinks  that  would  be  a -good  place." 

"Down  Dwarfland?" 

The  father  was  plainly  irritated.  "  'Dwarfland'  .  .  . 
what  poppycock !  Why  can't  you  get  your  head  down  to 
business,  Pelham?" 

He  would  meekly  smother  his  wandering  imagination, 
and  listen  to  long  monologues  about  grading,  restricted 
allotments,  and  similar  boring  topics. 


THE  JUDSONS  51 

The  father's  sympathy  went  no  further  than  to  ap- 
prove, in  the  boy,  the  things  which  the  man  himself  liked. 
His  son  should  naturally  take  to  those  things  which  the 
father  cared  for.  Fishing  trips  to  Pensacola  or  beyond 
Ship  Island,  which  Pelham  enjoyed  more  for  the  novelty 
of  scenes  and  faces  than  for  the  tedious  sport,  called 
forth  Paul's  gusty  admiration  when  the  boy  succeeded 
in  holding  to  a  game  mackerel,  or  in  a  skillful  handling 
of  spade  fish  or  mullet.  The  boy's  undistinguished 
prowess  in  swimming  and  tennis,  his  fumbling  success 
with  a  shotgun  after  bull-bats  or  meadow  larks,  were 
magnified  in  the  father's  eyes. 

The  pleasures  that  Pelham  devised  for  himself  were 
scoffed  at.  The  imaginative  reliving  of  knightly  days 
or  frontier  activities  was  as  distasteful  to  Paul's  matter- 
of-fact  mind  as  the  embroidering  at  Grandmother  Bar- 
bour's.  The  boy's  collecting  craze  found  no  response  in 
the  parent;  when  the  haphazard  interest  in  tobacco  tags, 
street-car  transfers  and  marbles  gave  way  to  a  real  ab- 
sorption in  stamps,  that  consumed  the  son's  spare  money 
and  time  voraciously,  Paul  issued  a  ukase  on  the  subject. 
"Get  rid  of  them.  Collect  money,  as  I  do,  if  you  want 
to  collect  anything." 

Pelham  rehashed  his  arguments.  "They  teach  you 
geography,  and  history.  .  .  ." 

"They're  trash;  cancelled  stamps,  worth  nothing." 

"People  pay  lots  for  some  stamps." 

"You've  got  something  else  to  think  about.  Sell  'em, 
or  give  'em  away ;  get  rid  of  'em.  You  understand  ?" 

Pelham  finally  sold  them  to  a  local  barber,  from  whom 
he  had  bought  many  of  the  unused  South  American  speci- 
mens. "Sure,  I  buy  'em,"  Mr.  Lang  smiled.  He  went 
through  the  scanty  pages,  repeating  all  his  stock  jokes: 
"You're  a  guy,  and  a  pair  of  guys,"  as  Uruguay  and  Para- 


52  MOUNTAIN 

guay  were  reached,  being  his  favorite.  "They're  not 
worth  much  to  me.  Tell  you  what,  I  give  you  thirty- 
two  dollars." 

The  boy  had  to  be  content  with  this. 

Less  than  a  year  later,  he  surreptitiously  bought  back 
the  collection  for  forty,  keeping  them  concealed  in  a 
corner  of  the  attic. 

The  third  summer  brought  weekly  target  practice  upon 
the  mountain.  This  grew  out  of  a  lynching  at  nearby 
Coaldale,  following  a  brutal  assault  upon  a  white  miner's 
wife  by  a  negro.  The  Judson  arsenal  contained  three 
rifles,  several  shot  guns,  and  half  a  dozen  revolvers; 
they  were  all  put  into  use  in  the  hollow  behind  Crenshaw 
Hill.  The  girls  of  course  took  part,  and  Mary,  a  good 
shot,  thereafter  carried  her  pistol  in  her  handbag  when- 
ever she  went  to  the  foot  of  the  hill.  An  exaggerated 
account  of  this  spread  among  the  negroes;  only  the 
boldest  vagrant  would  think  a  second  time  of  daring 
the  unerring  gunfire  of  the  Judsons. 

This  constant  reminder  of  the  danger  to  women,  from 
men,  drove  the  boy's  mind  to  consider  this  problem. 
Pelham  had  matured  slowly;  his  mother  had  been  his 
chief  sweetheart,  as  long  as  he  could  remember.  But 
the  association  with  girls  at  the  new  Highlands  High 
School  made  the  matter  more  personal  to  him.  With 
eager  avidity  he  took  to  whatever  reading  he  could  find 
upon  the  subject.  There  were  pages  in  his  presentation 
Bible,  and  in  an  old  "Lives  of  the  Popes,"  that  were 
creased  and  yellowed  from  his  frequent  reading. 

Occasional  newspaper  stories  moved  him  strangely. 
He  lay  awake  almost  all  of  one  night,  on  the  canvas  cot 
in  a  tent  near  the  crest,  going  over  the  details  of  one  of 
these  accounts  that  he  had  torn  out  of  a  paper  and  kept 
folded  up  in  his  purse.  It  was  from  some  upstate  village, 
.—and  the  house  servants  of  the  mistress  had  aided  in 


THE  JUDSONS  53 

the  attack  upon  her.  What  would  he  have  done  if  he 
had  been  near?  Usually  he  portrayed  himself  as  the 
rescuer,  nobly  driving  off  the  wicked  assailants.  But 
infrequent  gusts  of  emotion  colored  his  fancies  differ- 
ently :  he  saw  himself  successively  in  the  role  of  each  of 
the  participants.  He  particularly  dwelt  upon  the  woman's 
part.  If  he  were  only  a  girl  now, —  His  body  warmed 
at  vague  visions  of  surrender. 

He  was  a  clean  boy,  in  the  main,  bodily  and  mentally. 
His  mother  had  impressed  purity  upon  him,  as  a  thing 
to  be  always  striven  for;  and  he  had  implicitly  followed 
her,  as  far  as  he  was  able.  This  conversation  with  Mary 
was  connected,  although  he  did  not  know  it,  with  an 
incident  that  had  happened  at  Jackson  on  one  of  his 
earlier  visits  there,  when  Aunt  Lotta,  Jimmy's  mother, 
had  found  him  under  the  porch  hammock  with  Lil — two 
babies  beginning  to  scorch  their  untaught  fingers  at  the 
bigger  fires  of  life. 

There  had  been  no  punishment  for  this.  Aunt  Lotta 
had  merely  told  the  children  that  only  common  boys  and 
girls  were  naughty.  This  had  been  enough. 

Several  years  afterwards,  when  the  cousins  had  visited 
the  mountain, — Pelham  was  hardly  ten  at  the  time, — his 
mind  had  been  somewhat  disturbed  by  the  loose  talk  of 
the  bragging  East  Highlands  boys.  He  had  discussed  it 
with  Lil  on  the  comfortable  pampas  grass  above  the 
chert  quarry  not  far  from  the  cottage. 

"You  know,  Lil,  all  the  boys  and  girls  we  know  do 
these  things.  .  .  .  Think  how  bad  I  would  feel,  if  I 
were  with  a  girl,  and  didn't  know  how!  If  we  could 
find  out  .  .  .  together.  .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  all  right,  Pell/' 

That,  however,  was  all  that  had  come  of  it. 

Now  he  had  reached  his  last  year  at  the  high  school. 
His  marks  had  been  good,  particularly  in  mathematics 


54  MOUNTAIN 

and  English  Literature.  It  had  long  been  assumed  that 
he  was  to  go  to  college,  and  fit  himself  to  assist  his 
father's  business  in  civil  or  mining  engineering.  He 
wanted  to  go  to  the  state  university,  but  Paul's  larger 
plans  included  a  northern  education;  after  much  balanc- 
ing of  catalogue  advantages,  Sheffield  Scientific  School, 
at  Yale,  was  decided  upon. 

Most  of  this  summer  too  was  spent  at  the  grandparents' 
place;  but  he  came  home  early,  to  help  his  mother  get 
his  things  ready  for  the  longer  separation. 

The  last  night,  before  his  departure,  when  Mary  came 
in  for  the  customary  kiss,  they  conversed  restrainedly 
at  first.  Soon  she  was  crying,  and  he  was  sobbing  as  if 
his  throat  would  break. 

"Mother's  little  boy !  I  don't  know  who  I  will  turn  to, 
when  you're  so  far  away." 

"It  won't  be  for  long,  mother.  And  I'll  write  all  the 
time." 

He  went  to  sleep  finally,  his  head  pillowed  upon  her 
breast,  as  when  he  had  been  her  baby,  her  only  son. 

She  could  not  go  to  the  station  to  see  him  off, — there 
was  so  much  to  be  done  on  the  mountain;  but  he  held 
her  tightly  against  him  for  a  long,  long  hug  and  kiss, 
and  walked  bravely  away. 

He  sat  down  on  the  big  stone  by  the  dummy  gap-gate. 
A  racking  tendency  to  cry  tore  at  his  throat.  He  was  a 
man,  going  out  into  the  world  of  men.  He  beat  the 
rock  with  clenched  hands. 

He  was  not  bidding  good-by  to  his  mother,  and  the 
mountain.  He  shut  them  from  him  when  he  went  to 
sleep  each  night;  in  the  morning  they  were  his  again. 
This  was  only  a  longer  separation.  He  was  going  north 
not  to  leave  them,  but  to  make  himself  a  better  son  of 
his  mother,  a  better  son  of  the  mountain.  He  would 
return,  and  then, — 


THE  JUDSONS  J5 

One  of  his  youthful  magic  rites  came  to  him.  Standing 
on  his  toes,  facing  the  mountain, — stretching  to  his  full 
height,  with  head  thrown  back  and  hands  spread  above 
his  head,  he  posed,  a  taut,  slim  figure,  poised  beneath 
climbing  tree-trunks  of  gray,  and  the  leafy  clouds  above 
them.  For  a  long  moment  the  world  stood  still  for  him. 
This  was  his  farewell  and  his  benediction. 

He  slung  his  raincoat  over  his  shoulder,  adjusted  the 
tennis  racket  and  shiny  suit-case  in  his  left  hand,  and 
passed  through  the  gate. 


VI 

r  I  ^HE  temporary  heroic  mood,  that  had  marked  his 
•*•  departure  from  the  mountain,  wilted  on  the  long 
railroad  journey.  He  was  very  lonely  at  first,  in  New 
Haven.  The  town  was  dead  and  deserted,  as  he  took 
the  entrance  exams.  In  the  interval  of  uncertain  wait- 
ing, he  brought  out  his  disused  stamp  album,  and  spent 
solitary  evenings  rearranging  every  stamp  in  the  book. 

With  the  next  week,  he  began  to  feel  at  home.  Every 
train  vomited  a  riot  of  eager  boys, — recent  alumni  back 
for  the  opening  fun,  self-conscious  upper  classmen,  timid 
beginners  like  himself.  The  excitement  of  making  new 
friends,  and  learning  the  immemorial  lore  of  Yale,  pulled 
him  out  of  his  shell  of  seclusion.  He  became  one  of  the 
crowd,  an  atom  swirling  through  unaccustomed  channels 
of  a  fresh  social  body 

He  grew  at  once  into  ShefFs  boisterous  feeling  of 
superiority  over  the  placid,  plugging  Academic  grinds. 
He  snorted  when  compulsory  chapel  was  mentioned. 
Why,  he  would  be  a  junior  next  year,  when  these  staid 
classical  freshmen  would  be  mere  sophomores.  That 
was  what  Sheff  did  to  a  fellow ! 

His  letters  home  were  full  of  imposing  details, 
gathered  at  second  hand.  There  was  no  place  like  this 
in  the  world! 

The  first  big  night  came, — the  night  of  the  Sheff  Rush. 
Pelham  felt  a  peculiar  interest  in  it.  He  was  not  very 
athletic,  although  in  wrestling,  as  in  cross-country  work, 
he  was  above  the  average.  And  this  occasion  was  sacred 
to  the  wrestlers. 

56 


THE  JUDSONS  57 

His  wrestling  pictures,  dating  from  Adamsville  days, 
had  been  properly  admired  by  his  room-mate,  Neil  Mor- 
ton, a  strapping,  likable  Texan,  who  had  prepped  at  Hill. 
Pelham,  a  mere  graduate  of  a  city  high  school,  could  not 
expect  to  be  ranked  with  the  products  of  Lawrenceville, 
Taft,  Hill  and  St.  Paul's. 

After  the  heavy-weights  and  middles  had  been  annexed 
by  the  juniors,  there  was  a  lull.  No  freshman  light- 
weight could  be  located. 

Neil  rose  to  his  feet.  His  yearling  bellow  rang  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd.  "Judson!  Try  Judson,  here!" 

Another  group  was  singing  out,  "Claxton !  Claxton ! 
We  want  Claxton!" 

Others  near  him  joined  Morton's  cry.  "Judson!  Pell 
Judson !" 

Claxton  did  not  materialize. 

The  new  crew  captain  squatted  under  the  nearest 
torch,  and  peered  at  the  group.  "Judson  there?" 

Pelham,  protesting  and  nervously  laughing,  was  shoved 
forward,  stripped  by  the  big  Y'd  team  men,  and  edged 
into  his  corner.  He  found  himself  facing  Ted  Schang, 
of  last  year's  wrestling  squad,  one  of  the  promising  light- 
weights of  the  University. 

The  derisive  juniors  gobbled  their  war  cry.  "Go  it, 
Teddy  boy !  At  'im !  Eat  up  the  dam'  f  rosh !" 

Teddy  ate  him  up,  the  first  fall,  by  a  swift  half  Nelson, 
and  a  quicker  recovery  when  Pelham  tried  to  turn  over 
and  wriggle  out. 

"Yea  'Twelve !    Kill  'im !" 

In  the  brief  rest,  he  ground  his  fingers  into  his  palms, 
and  determined  to  show  what  'Thirteen  could  do.  He 
was  the  crest  of  the  class  wave  for  the  moment;  an 
aching  loyalty  shook  him. 

This  time  he  was  more  cautious.  The  team  sub  was 
confident  now,  and  left  a  careless  opening,  which  Pelharxi 


58  MOUNTAIN 

seized  at  once.  After  a  long,  tough  tussle  he  won;  but 
this  left  him  winded;  so  that  the  third  fall,  and  the 
match,  went  to  the  upper  classman.  But  he  had  won 
one  fall ;  and  he  was  a  figure  in  his  class  from  that  night. 

His  mother  was  inordinately  proud  of  the  boy's  par- 
ticipation. Her  elaboration  of  his  night-letter  home 
which  she  wrote  to  her  sister,  fell  later  into  his  hands, 
and  he  shook  delightedly  over  it.  "Think  of  the  honor, 
Lotta !  Selected  from  all  of  Yale  to  represent  his  school 
on  the  opening  week,  and  landing  the  second  fall  in  the 
whole  University!  We  are  surely  proud  that  God  has 
given  us  such  a  strong,  manly  son.  Paul  is  very  pleased, 
and  is  sending  him  a  check  for  fifty.  Jackson  can  show 
those  Yankees  something  yet." 

Paul's  pride  showed  in  more  definite  and  characteristic 
fashion.  He  had  a  story  run  in  the  Times-Dispatch,  and 
the  Evening  Register;  Pelham's  picture  headed  the  ac- 
count, which  stressed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  product  of 
the  local  high  school,  "the  sor  of  Mr.  and  Mrs  Paul 
Judson,  of  Hillcrest  Cottage,  and  a  grandson  of  Judge 
Thomas  F.  Judson,  the  distinguished  jurist  of  Jackson." 
All  these  things  advertised  the  family,  and  the  business. 

Neil  Morton  was  frankly  critical.  "Do  they  do  that 
sort  of  thing  in  Adamsville  often,  sonny?  Why  didn't 
your  old  man  run  his  own  cut  too,  and  a  picture  of 
home  sweet  home,  with  the  Judson  family  grouped  around 
a  lawn-mower  in  the  front  yard?  Pass  her  over!" 

But  Pelham  shame- facedly  held  on  to  it;  and  both 
clippings  were  later  pasted  into  his  scrap-book. 

At  the  end  of  a  hard  year,  Pelham,  fully  three  inches 
taller,  counted  the  days  before  he  got  home  to  his  mother 
and  the  mountain. 

He  enjoyed  the  mountain  as  never  before,  in  the 
summer  following.  At  New  Haven,  his  had  been  the 
subordinate  lot  of  the  hundreds  like  himself.  Only  un- 


THE  JUDSONS  59 

usual  qualities  could  hold  the  top  there ;  and  he,  younger 
than  most  in  his  class,  was  far  from  the  envied  heights. 
Once  these  younger  sons  scattered  to  their  home  cities 
and  villages,  their  importance  grew  amazingly.  Adams - 
ville  held  young  Judson  to  be  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming 
the  biggest  man  in  the  northern  university. 

His  home  became  an  appendix  to  the  Country  Club, 
as  the  festive  center  of  the  younger  crowd.  The  tennis 
courts  were  never  out  of  use;  sport  frocks  and  flannel 
trousers  peopled  them  from  eleven  till  dusk  fell.  Along 
the  bridle  paths  leading  to  the  road  and  beyond,  the 
leaves  were  set  dancing  by  laughing  couples;  benches 
and  rustic  seats  beneath  flowering  rhododendrons,  beside 
the  winding  lanes  of  the  Forty  Acres,  invited  languorous 
love-making.  And  after  a  brisk  session  of  men's  doubles, 
the  pool  which  Hollis  had  urged  and  finally  constructed, 
below  the  chilly  chalybeate  spring  behind  the  cottage, 
was  better  than  all  the  club  showers  in  the  world. 

Both  of  the  sisters  were  popular.  Nell  danced  well, 
and  never  lacked  eager  escorts.  Sue,  on  the  contrary, 
had  no  outstanding  good  feature.  Her  brown  hair  was 
somewhat  sandy,  her  nose  turned  up  a  trifle,  and  she 
was  not  as  quick-witted  as  the  other  Judsons.  But  the 
girls  realized  she  was  safe ;  there  was  no  fear  she  would 
annex  any  of  their  suitors,  and  she  shared  the '  confi- 
dences of  at  least  half  a  dozen  best  friends  at  all  times. 

Early  in  the  summer,  Pelham  was  paired  with  one  of 
these  intimates,  Virginia  Moore.  The  girl  was  tall  and 
slim,  almost  gawky.  Her  habit  was  to  serve  a  direct 
overhand  ball,  then  permit  her  partner  to  win  the  point. 
Her  caustic  tongue  made  her  generally  disliked;  but  he 
found  this  an  alluring  novelty,  after  the  insipid  small 
talk  of  the  others. 

When  the  set  was  over,  he  led  her  to  his  chosen  rock 
seat  carved  out  of  the  outcrop  beyond  the  gap.  The 


60  MOUNTAIN 

talk  became  personal,  Virginia  shrewdly  deferring  to 
his  superior  mascuHnity,  with  flattering  attention. 

At  last  his  stumbling  tongue  blurted  out,  "V-virginia. 
do  you  want  to  wear  my  frat  pin?" 

She  hesitated,  and  smiled  encouragingly. 

He  blushed  under  his  heavy  tan.  "We  can  only  give 
it  to  mother,  or  sister,  or — or — or  the  girl  we  .  .  .  we're 
engaged  to." 

"Well,  we're  not  related."  She  twisted  a  spray  of 
hydrangea  into  her  hair. 

He  unpinned  the  black  enameled  symbol,  his  heart 
jumping  violently,  and  moved  closer.  With  a  pretty 
gesture,  she  indicated  where  he  should  place  it. 

The  cool  fragrance  of  her  made  him  giddy.  One 
loose  strand  of  hair  brushed  against  his  forehead,  causing 
him  to  tingle  and  tickle  all  over.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to 
bruise  her  against  his  body,  as  on  mad  moonlit  nights 
he  had  flung  himself  around  some  rough-barked  oak  on 
the  summit.  Ignorant  that  girls,  not  in  books,  at  times 
felt  such  emotions,  he  affixed  the  pin  with  impersonal  de- 
corum. Then  he  slid  to  the  ground  beside  her  feet,  and 
stared  against  the  burning  sunset. 

When  the  sun  dropped  back  of  his  hill,  he  rose  grop- 
ingly. It  was  hard  to  phrase  some  things;  he  was  des- 
perately anxious  not  to  appear  ridiculous  in  her  eyes. 
Yet,  unless  all  of  his  reading  was  wrong,  something  more 
was  expected  of  a  man  in  love. 

"I — I  ought  to  kiss  you,  if  we're  engaged." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  docilely. 

He  held  her  lithe  cool  body,  and  he  felt  the  rapture  of 
brushing  his  lips  against  her  own. 

He  led  the  way  down  the  path,  exaggeratedly  at- 
tentive. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  brief  summer  he  spent  every 
spare  moment  with  the  girl, — mornings  on  the  courts, 


THE  JUDSONS  61 

long  afternoon  walks,  whispering  evenings  in  the  rock 
seat.  He  would  come  home  after  a  day  with  her,  and 
lie,  tumbling  sleeplessly  on  his  bed,  living  over  the 
delicious  last  moments  spent  with  her,  and  elaborating 
intenser  fantasies  of  love-making.  Her  eyes  obsessed 
him;  they  were  like  his  mother's. 

Another  friendship  marked  the  summer.  Old  Na- 
thaniel Guild  did  not  come  to  the  place  as  often  as  before ; 
the  winter  had  been  hard  on  him,  and  the  steep  paths 
were  often  too  much  for  his  frail  strength.  As  Paul 
was  kept  close  to  his  desk,  it  was  the  son  who  accom- 
panied Guild  on  his  infrequent  rambles  over  the  grounds, 
and  the  rougher  land  beyond  the  fence. 

"You  notice  the  tilt  of  these  outcrop  rocks,  Pelham?" 
he  asked,  one  afternoon.  "They  slant  forty  degrees  on 
this  hill,  and  forty-four  beyond  Logan  Avenue,  on  the 
other  hill.  Last  week  I  was  over  beyond  West  Adams- 
ville ;  all  of  these  strata  are  there ;  only  they  angle  to 
the  west,  instead  of  to  the  east,  as  here.  Like  this." 

He  diagrammed  roughly  on  a  sheet  in  his  note  book. 

"Here  are  the  two  Ida  veins, — the  big  veins  here ;  here 
is  the  soft  hematite  under  them,  and  a  thin  harder  vein. 
Then  comes  bedrock,  and  under  it  a  heavy  clay  deposit. 
Above  the  Ida  vein  there  was  quartz, — the  same  quartz 
we  take  from  the  back  of  the  place.  Now,  on  the  west 
part  of  town," — he  indicated  with  sweep  of  his  hand  the 
hazy  distance  beyond  the  furnaced  city, — "there  the  same 
strata  were  once.  But  the  erosion  has  gone  further. 
There  is  only  a  trace  of  the  quartz,  and  the  three  top 
veins.  Only  a  few  thin  streaks  of  the  bottom  hard  ore 
are  there.  Even  the  bedrock  has  been  washed  off  some 
of  the  hills.  .  .  ." 

Pelham  nodded. 

"If  we  could  have  gotten  hold  of  that  iron  too!  .  .  . 
All  gone,  all  washed  away." 


62  MOUNTAIN 

"How  does  it  happen  that  the  strata  are  the  same  ?" 

Nathaniel  looked  at  him  sharply  from  under  bushy 
gray  eyebrows.  He  turned  again  to  the  paper,  and  con- 
tinued the  two  lines  until  they  met,  high  above  what 
was  now  Adamsville. 

"Wait.  .  .  .  This  point  is  the  sand  hills, — there  to 
the  east.  There  are  more  of  them  beyond  the  West 

Highlands  range.  See, "  and  a  firm  stroke  of  the 

pencil  continued  their  lines  until  they  arched  above  the 
former  peak. 

Pelham  watched  the  moving  pencil,  fascinated. 

"Was  the  mountain  ever  like  that?" 

"The  rocks  are  absolute  proof.  This  valley," — he  ges- 
tured toward  the  city, — "was  once  the  hidden  center  of 
the  hill." 

".  .  .  How  long  ago?" 

Nathaniel  chuckled  gently.  "Ah,  that's  beyond  us. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  of  years,  maybe." 

Somehow  this  made  the  mountain  more  real  to  Pel- 
ham.  Though  he  might  climb,  under  the  midnight  stars, 
to  the  highest  crag  on  Crenshaw  Hill,  he  was  just  at  the 
beginning  of  what  had  once  been  the  peak.  He  fancied 
he  could  trace  its  towering  crown,  blacker  than  the 
surrounding  blackness,  lifting  up  to  the  sky  and  the 
sparkling  stars. 

What  a  fleeting  second  of  time,  to  the  mountain,  were 
the  eighteen  laborious  years  that  meant  so  much  to  him ! 
This  hill  would  continue  to  jut  toward  the  clouds  when 
the  last  trace  of  man's  restless  activity  had  crumbled 
into  dusty  forgetfulness. 

He  formed  the  habit  of  circling  up  to  these  crags,  after 
a  night  at  the  club  or  the  park  with  Virginia.  They  sup- 
plied the  needed  solitude  for  his  crammed  fancies.  Some 
nights,  after  he  had  been  with  her,  his  body  would  burn 
like  a  torch.  The  pelting  passion  that  shivered  through- 


THE  JUDSONS  63 

out  him  frightened  him.  He  needed  the  mountain  and 
the  stars  to  calm  him  for  bed.  Love  was  becoming  an 
overmastering  torrent;  it  threatened  to  upset  his  whole 
equilibrium. 

His  father  got  wind  of  the  affair,  through  some  chance 
comment.  He  went  straight  to  the  point  with  the  boy. 
"You're  seeing  a  lot  of  that  Moore  girl,  Pelham." 

"Yes,   sir.    ...   I   like  her." 

"L.  N.  Moore  has  four  daughters,  all  unmarried.  He 
is  worth  about  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  That's  all 
they  will  get." 

"I— I  hadn't  ever  thought  about  that,  father." 

"You've  got  to  think  about  it.  Here  Tom  Dodge's 
children  have  married  millions — every  one  of  them. 
Sarah  married  Jack  Lamar;  he  owns  the  steel  works. 
The  boys  connected  with  the  Vanderventer  and  the 
O'Ryan  money.  There's  an  intelligent  family." 

Pelham  got  hot  all  over.  He  muttered  something 
about  not  marrying  for  money. 

"Who  wants  you  to  marry  for  money?"  his  father 
interrupted.  "The  Dodge  crowd  managed  to  fall  in  love 
with  folks  who  had  money.  It's  a  big  difference.  I'm 
going  to  leave  the  girls  well  fixed ;  they  ought  to  marry 
well.  I  want  you  to  keep  your  eyes  open." 

The  talk  left  a  bad  taste  in  Pelham's  mouth. 

Even  though  his  mother  did  not  care  for  Virginia  as 
much  as  he  had  thought  she  would,  his  attentions  con- 
tinued until  vacation  ended,  and  he  returned  to  the 
muggy  northern  city. 

Nell  responded  to  the  open  life  almost  as  fully  as 
Pelham.  Hollis  was  busy  at  school,  and  Sue  preferred 
staying  with  her  mother;  so  the  older  sister  frequently 
had  her  favorite  mare  saddled,  and  covered  fifteen  miles 
before  she  turned  the  horse  loose  in  the  spring  lot. 

Paul  was  on  the  mountain  frequently,  mornings  and 


64  MOUNTAIN 

afternoons;  Hillcrest  Subdivision  had  at  last  been  put 
upon  the  market.  Most  of  the  work  fell  on  his  shoulders ; 
his  roadster  buzzed  up  and  down  the  avenues,  displaying 
the  place  to  prospective  purchasers.  The  lower  lots  sold 
well  from  the  start.  After  six  months,  the  investment 
had  almost  paid  for  itself,  with  less  than  an  eighth  of 
the  land  disposed  of. 

In  the  early  spring,  Nathaniel  came  to  Paul  with  a 
proposition  to  take  the  land  off  the  lists  as  residence 
property,  until  the  iron  could  be  mined. 

"As  soon  as  we  sell  any  of  the  crest  places,  it  will 
be  too  late.  Now's  the  time;  we  can  form  our  own 
mining  corporation,  and  sell  to  South  Atlantic  Steel. 
Ore's  reached  the  highest  point  in  twelve  years.  It  will 
mean  a  fortune,  Paul,  and  the  land  will  be  just  as  good 
after  the  iron's  out." 

Paul  was  set  against  the  plan  at  first.  There  was  more 
ready  money  in  the  other ;  it  would  spoil  the  face  of  the 
subdivision;  they  didn't  know  the  ropes. 

The  older  man  was  insistent.  "It'll  mean  money — big 
money.  We  can't  overlook  a  shot  like  this." 

He  went  over  the  suggestion  for  Mary's  benefit;  she 
too  protested.  "Why,  Mr.  Guild,  the  mountain's  our 
home;  it  would  be  dreadful  to  spoil  it.  What  would 
happen  to  the  cottage?" 

Paul  cut  in,  shortly;  his  mind  was  quickened  by  op- 
position of  any  kind;  and  the  chance  for  a  quiet  public 
dominance  of  his  wife  was  not  to  be  overlooked.  "We 
don't  intend  to  touch  this  part  of  it,  Mary.  .  .  .  I'll 
tell  you,  Nate;  we'll  go  over  it  with  Ross  and  Sam 
Randolph.  If  there's  as  much  in  it  as  you  say,  we 
can't  afford  to  neglect  it." 

After  the  visitor  had  gone,  he  walked  out  to  the  front, 
and  stared  at  the  red  smudges  that  marked  the  furnaces 


THE  JUDSONS  65 

and  rolling  mills.  When  Mary  joined  him,  -a  wrap 
thrown  around  her  shoulders,  he  was  chewing  the  end 
of  an  unlighted  cigar.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Paul,  dear,  you  weren't  angry  at  what  I  said  at 
supper  ?" 

"Of  course  not.  Women  can't  be  expected  to  look  on 
a  business  matter  as  men  do." 

She  shrank  from  the  implied  rebuke.  "You — you 
aren't  serious  about  this  mining,  are  you?" 

He  waved  toward  the  dark  foot  of  the  hill  with  the 
cigar.  "D'ye  know  what  we  cleared  from  the  bottom 
of  the  Crenshaw  lands,  Mary,  on  these  first  sales?" 

She  was  silent. 

"Our  share  was  ninety  thousand  dollars!  And  the 
place  didn't  cost  fifty." 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  any  of  it  go,  Paul.  It  would  make 
such  a  wonderful  home  for  our  children — when  they're 
grown  up  and  married,  and  have  their  own  little  homes 
within  reach " 

He  crushed  the  cigar  beneath  his  heel.  "You're  much 
too  sentimental,  sometimes,  Mary.  The  children 
wouldn't  thank  me  to  hold  on  to  the  land,  when  I  can 
get  a  hundred  and  ten  a  foot  for  inside  lots." 

"We  have  all  the  money  we  can  possibly  use  now, 
Paul.  You  must  have  made  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand this  year " 

"That  hardly  touches  it." 

"It  makes  me  afraid,  sometimes — our  having  so  much, 
when  so  many  people  have  so  little.  If  we  could  just 
keep  Hillcrest  as  it  is " 

"We  haven't  anything,"  he  answered  sharply.  "Jack 
Lamar  and  his  brother  came  here  just  before  I  did; 
they've  five  million  apiece.  And  God  only  knows  how 
much  Russell  Ross  has  made  out  of  iron.  He's  in  with 


66  MOUNTAIN 

that  South  Atlantic  Steel  bunch;  he  could  sell  out  for 
twenty-five  millions  to-morrow,  I  verily  believe.  .  .  . 
I'd  be  lucky  to  get  a  million." 

She  stubbornly  returned  to  what  was  on  her  mind. 
"And  now  you  are  willing  to  take  this  wonderful  estate 
you  have  worked  over  for  ten  years,  and  throw  it  away, 
because  Russell  Ross  has  more  money  than  you !  Think 
what  the  Rosses  were." 

"My  father  wouldn't  have  wiped  his  shoes  on  them. 
And  any  one  of  them  could  buy  out  Jackson  three  or 
four  times  now.  This  mountain — if  it's  handled  right — 
it  will  simply  mint  money.  It  will  be  a  mountain  of  gold." 

She  shuddered.     "Paul " 

"I  can  imagine  what  you  would  say,  if  I  hadn't  made 
what  I  have  out  of  it.  You  spend  what  I  make  quickly 
enough." 

"I  save  everywhere  I  can " 

"Oh,  you,  and  the  place,  and  the  girls;  and  it  costs 
a  lot  to  keep  Pelham  going.  We  need  every  cent  of  it. 
I  tell  you,  this  mountain  is  worth  millions !  And  I  won't 
stop  until  I've  gotten  every  red  cent  out  of  it." 

It  was  in  that  mood  that  he  went  to  the  conference 
with  the  iron  men. 

One  Sunday  morning,  when  the  negotiations  had  been 
carried  over  until  the  next  week,  Nathaniel's  house- 
keeper phoned  that  the  old  man  had  died  shortly  before 
daybreak.  Paul  took  charge  of  the  funeral,  saw  to  the 
shipping  of  the  body  to  the  Ohio  home,  and  turned  the 
matter  over  to  the  lawyers  for  the  estate. 

Within  a  month  he  had  secured  his  partner's  interest 
in  the  whole  property,  and  was  the  sole  owner  of  the 
mountain. 

"If  we  do  mine,"  he  told  Mary,  "Pelham's  mining  en- 
gineering course  will  make  him  the  man  for  the  place. 
He'll  get  Nate's  share,  if  he's  worth  it." 


THE  JUDSONS  67 

In  June  Snell  and  Judson  threw  open  another  large 
subdivision,  in  a  cheaper  suburb  near  Hazelton,  and 
Mr.  Snell's  incapacity  put  the  burden  of  this  on  Paul's 
shoulders.  Further  plans  for  Hillcrest  were  laid  over 
until  he  could  find  time  to  take  them  up  again. 


VII 


THE  day  after  the  next  Thanksgiving,  Paul,  excited 
and  jubilant,  drove  up  the  graveled  path  to  the 
side  door  of  Hillcrest.  "Read  those,"  he  pushed  three 
papers  into  Mary's  hands,  as  she  rose  from  the  veranda 
rocker. 

Her  eyes  blurred,  so  that  she  had  to  take  off  her  glasses, 
as,  sick  at  heart,  she  realized  what  the  documents  were. 
Her  husband  spread  them  out  on  her  lap,  explaining 
rapidly.  "This  is  the  certificate  of  incorporation  of  the 
Mountain  Mining  Company.  Here's  my  contract  with 
them — I  hold  fifty-one  per  cent  of  the  stock,  counting 
twenty  shares  in  your  name  and  one  in  Pelham's,  so  we 
retain  the  controlling  interest — which  provides  the  terms 
for  the  taking  out  of  the  ore.  This  last  is  a  carbon  of 
the  letter  I  got  off  to  the  boy  this  morning,  giving  all 
the  details." 

She  had  lost  her  fight  after  all.  "The  cottage,"  she 
whispered,  "how  long  now  before  we  must  leave  it?" 

He  slapped  a  pointing  finger  at  the  center  of  the  second 
paper.  "Section  seven — here  it  is — we  won't  move  at 
all !  This  part  of  the  mountain  is  not  to  be  touched,  until 
all  the  rest  is  mined.  As  long  as  the  house  stands,  we're 
safe."  He  smiled,  in  conscious  self -approval. 

She  raised  dimmed  eyes.  "That's  good  of  you,  Paul. 
It  hurts  me  to  see  any  of  it  disturbed.  ...  I  suppose 
you  could  do  nothing  else." 

Refolding  the  sheets,  he  slipped  them  into  an  envelope 
with  enthusiastic  finality.  "The  thing  grows  bigger  and 
bigger  every  time  I  go  over  it.  If  it  pans  out,  we  can 

68 


THE  JUDSONS  69 

buy  Adamsville!  I  said  a  mountain  of  gold,  remember. 
.  .  .  Ground  will  be  broken  in  the  spring.  We'll  put 
Tow  Hewin  in  charge  of  it  now — he's  the  man  poor 
Nate  spoke  of — and  when  Pelham  comes  back  in  June, 
he  can  put  his  M.  E.  degree  right  into  harness.  .  .  . 
God  !  It  means  millions  !" 

"You're  sure  the  cottage  is  safe?  It  would  break  my 
heart  to  think  we'd  have  to  give  it  up.  It's  such  a 
splendid  home  for  the  children " 

He  pushed  out  his  lips.  "It  is  a  lovely  place,  Mary; 
but  you've  gotten  rooted  here.  By  the  way,  I'll  wire  to 
St.  Simon's  Island  to-night  for  rooms  for  you  and  the 
girls  for  the  summer.  It  will  be  a  fine  change.  The 
children  can  go,  too.  Pelham  and  I  will  stay  on  the 
job  here." 

Her  lips  trembled ;  leave  before  Pelham  came — not  see 
him  all  summer?  .  .  . 

The  son's  reply  was  an  enthusiastic  endorsement  of  the 
affair.  He  had  gone  over  the  plan  with  his  father  on 
the  previous  holiday,  before  returning  to  take  a  year's 
graduate  work,  and  the  enterprise  appealed  to  his  imagi- 
nation. It  was  sacrilege,  in  a  way — like  disemboweling 
a  parent  for  the  money  that  could  be  made  out  of  it. 
But  what  an  invitation  to  his  trained  activity!  A  mar- 
velous chance  to  show  what  he  was  made  of. 

He  explained  the  project  to  Neil  Morton,  who  had 
also  returned  for  graduate  work,  after  a  summer's  prac- 
tical experience  in  a  Wyoming  smelter. 

Neil  twisted  his  shoulders  comfortably  into  the  dingy 
Morris  chair.  "Your  mountain  makes  me  weary,  Pell. 
Morning,  noon  .  .  .  night.  You'd  think  it  was  the 
only  ore  proposition  in  the  country." 

Pelham  flushed,  but  unchecked  finished  his  sentence. 
"It'll  be  the  biggest  plant  in  the  whole  South  yet." 


70  MOUNTAIN 

Neil  grinned.  "When  the  Adamsville  papers  get 
through  with  it,  I  suppose  it  will." 

Pelham  abruptly  changed  the  subject.  "I  met  one 
nice  girl  last  week  end,  Neil — you  would  have  liked  her. 
Her  father's  Professor  North  at  Cambridge,  and  she's 
full  of  all  sorts  of  crazy  notions.  Ruth  is  a  suffragette ; 
wanted  to  vote,  or  run  for  governor,  or  something." 

"Shocking,"  his  friend  remarked  languidly.  He  was 
used  to  Pelham's  reactions. 

"Tried  to  convert  me." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  then  Neil 
straightened  up  in  his  chair.  "Do  you  realize,  Pelham, 
that  in  Wyoming,  where  I  summered,  women  have  voted 
for  over  thirty  years?  Why,  the  mayor  of  one  of  the 
mining  towns  is  a  mother  who  has  raised  eleven  children ! 
Crazy  notions,  indeed." 

Pelham  looked  disturbed.  "They  must  be  bad  women, 
if  they  vote.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  decent  lady  mixing 
up  with  politics?  Think  of  my  mother,  or  yours,  Neil; 
would  you  be  willing  to  have  her  mingle  with  negroes 
and  common  riff-raff  at  the  polls?" 

The  other  exploded  at  this.  "She  does!  Mother's 
the  best  little  stump  speaker  in  the  county !  And  Polly's 
been  to  two  conventions  already." 

Pelham  lighted  a  handy  cigarette.  "I  always  said  that 
Texans  were  batty." 

"What  did  you  do  to  your  suffragist,  anyhow?" 

"Oh,  she  had  too  much  coin  for  my  simple  taste.  If 
father  learned  about  her,  he  couldn't  talk  anything  else. 
.  .  .  Not  for  mine!" 

A  rattle  of  knocks  on  the  door  broke  off  the  discus- 
sion. Several  graduate  students  pushed  into  the  room. 
"Hello,  Judson.  Going  out  for  supper,  Neil?" 

He  stretched  himself  up,  and  reached  for  a  cap.  "Pell 
and  I  were  just  about  to  prowl  down  to  Heublein's." 


THE  JUDSONS  71 

"Come  on,  then." 

As  they  crossed  Chapel  Street,  the  rubber-lunged  news- 
boys were  shouting,  "All  about  the  big  strike!  Street 
car  men  to  quit  to-morrow !" 

Pelham  purchased  a  smudgy  sheet.  While  the  waiter 
was  double-quicking  their  orders,  all  eyes  were  directed 
at  the  leading  story. 

"Look  at  this,"  Ralph  Jervis,  one  of  the  classmates, 
pointed  insistently,  "the  president  of  the  road  says  he'll 
break  the  strike  with  college  men.  Let's  take  a  week  off, 
and  be  blooming  motormen!" 

A  spectacled  Senior  dissented  at  once.  "It  wouldn't 
be  the  thing,  fellows.  Those  strikers  may  be  in  the  right, 
for  all  we  know." 

Jervis  howled  his  disgust.  "That's  what  comes  of 
joining  the  Socialist  Study  Club !  Falkhaven's  a  regular 
anarchist.  Why,  it's  a  great  idea!  Are  you  on,  Neil?" 

"Sure !"  The  Texan  roused  himself  to  answer  briskly. 
"If  Pell  '11  come  too." 

"I'm  for  it,"  Pelham  assented  quietly. 

The  constant  deference  and  affection  displayed  toward 
his  big-hearted  roommate  hurt  him,  against  his  will.  For 
all  his  ability  in  studies  and  on  the  mat,  Pelham  was  not 
popular.  He  had  never  been  accepted  in  the  higher 
circles  of  Sheff  life,  the  Colony  and  Cloister  groups ;  and 
he  in  turn  held  himself  aloof  from  the  run  of  the  class. 

He  was  a  thorough-going  snob,  for  all  his  talk  of 
democracy.  Anywhere  in  the  South,  which  held  the 
finest  people  in  the  country,  a  Judson  would  be  known 
and  recognized,  and  given  his  proper  place.  These 
Yankees,  no  matter  how  nice  they  might  be  personally, 
were  Republicans;  in  the  South,  only  negroes  and  turn- 
coats belonged  to  that  party.  At  meetings  of  the 
Southern  Club,  he  had  seconded  the  resolution  asking 
that  negro  students  be  provided  with  a  separate  gym- 


72  MOUNTAIN 

nasium  and  eating  hall.  It  had  furnished  a  week's  laugh 
to  the  University;  hot-headedly,  he  resented  this.  He 
felt  that  the  leading  men  held  him  merely  on  tolerance; 
he  shrank  in  upon  himself. 

This  feeling  of  isolation  was  not  entirely  unwelcome. 
He  had  become  used  to  it  in  his  mountain  days.  Here 
it  had  driven  him  to  the  College  Library,  where  he  had 
mastered  all  its  bulky  volumes  on  mining  and  kindred 
phases  of  engineering.  He  branched  from  these  into 
higher  mathematics,  until  he  could  stump  his  instructor 
on  the  fourth  dimension.  The  previous  Christmas  holi- 
day, he  had  turned  to  modern  European  drama,  and  had 
covered  what  he  could  find  in  an  amazing  short  time; 
although  it  was  not  easy  to  stomach  such  plays  as  "The 
Weavers,"  and  some  of  Shaw's  dramatic  maunderings. 

His  college  loyalty,  and  class  loyalty,  in  the  social 
sense,  continued  at  a  high  pitch ;  and  he  was  among  the 
first  to  arrive  at  the  office  of  the  New  Haven  Electric, 
and  to  sign  up  for  strike-duty. 

He  spent  an  intense  morning  learning  the  mechanism 
of  the  car — it  was  not  difficult,  for  a  good  driver;  and 
he  knew  automobiles  thoroughly. 

He  was  put  at  a  controller  on  the  Savin  Rock  run, 
with  a  halfback  for  his  conductor,  and  two  guards  fur- 
nished by  a  Newark  agency  to  aid  the  uniformed  police- 
men in  preserving  order  through  the  rioting  poorer  dis- 
tricts. 

The  resort  was  reached,  and  the  return  made,  in  a  tire- 
somely  unexciting  manner.  On  the  second  trip  out,  a 
crowd  had  gathered  near  the  turn  by  the  switching  yards, 
which  shouted  epithets  at  the  green  crew. 

"They're  a  bunch  uh  mouthin'  blackguards,  mate,"  the 
cheek-scarred  guard  on  the  front  platform  observed  with 
alcoholic  familiarity.  He  dodged  a  spattering  tomato 


THE  JUDSONS  73 

flung  jeeringly  by  a  tiny  Irishwoman.  "All  they  does 
is  shoot  off  their  mouth." 

Pelham  found  the  guard's  nearness  the  main  irritation 
of  the  ride. 

When  they  neared  the  same  corner  on  the  run  in,  two 
women  stepped  into  the  street.  He  slowed  the  car. 
They  suddenly  turned  back  to  the  sidewalk.  He  urged 
the  speed  up  two  notches. 

A  wagon  had  been  backed  across  the  track.  "Clear 
that  off,  there."  The  driver  was  evidently  too  asleep,  or 
drunk,  to  heed. 

"You  move  it,"  he  ordered  the  guard. 

As  the  man  stepped  down  uneasily,  the  rush  began. 
Out  of  the  cheap  lodging  houses  and  dingy  side  en- 
trances flooded  shouting  men,  women,  children.  Bricks, 
garbage,  old  bottles  thumped  against  the  car  sides. 

"Better  not  stop,  Judson/'  the  green  conductor's  shout 
reached  him.  "It'll  be  hot  in  a  minute." 

The  guard  struggled  with  the  heads  of  the  horses.  A 
whirling  broom-handle  from  the  sidewalk  knocked  him 
against  the  wheels.  He  let  go  the  bits,  uncertainly. 

"Kill  the  dam'  scabs !" 

"To  hell  with 'em!" 

"Yah,  scabs !     Kill  the  college  scabs !" 

Pelham  swung  the  heavy  switch  key  dangerously  close 
to  the  heads  of  the  rioters  near  the  footboard.  "Shove  off 
that  wagon,  there.  We're  going  through." 

The  horses  backed  protestingly.  The  iron  rod  leapt 
toward  the  shrinking  crowd.  The  track  was  cleared. 

Baffled,  they  surged  across  the  rails  in  front;  car  win- 
dows were  smashed,  a  turmoil  boiled  on  the  rear  steps, 
where  policeman  and  conductor  battled  with  the  more 
incautious  attackers.  The  second  guard  sneaked  off 
down  the  alley. 


74  MOUNTAIN 

Three  or  four  boarded  the  front  steps.  A  shrieking 
woman  in  the  lead  caught  Pelham's  arm.  He  felt  him- 
self dragged  toward  the  door.  The  swiftness  of  it  dazed 
him ;  he  could  not  hit  a  woman. 

"Naw  yer  don't !"  The  guard  woke  up,  tore  loose  the 
woman  with  bullying  arms.  "This  rough  stuff  don't  go !" 
He  threw  her  back  into  the  crowd.  An  Italian  bent  at 
Pelham's  feet;  a  shiny  blade  snaked  toward  his  leg. 
He  cracked  the  man's  shoulders  with  the  switch  key ;  the 
knife  rang  on  the  cobbles. 

Pelham  toed  the  bell  vigorously.  The  car  started  with 
a  jerk.  The  front  caught  one  fleeing  obstructor,  throw- 
ing him  sideways.  Infuriated  jeers  and  howls  came 
from  women  and  children  forced  aside.  A  brick  splint- 
ered the  glass  at  his  right,  just  missing  his  head.  He 
broke  through,  and  came  into  the  center  of  the  town. 

A  dispatcher  took  charge,  placed  him  on  a  quieter  run, 
and  laid  off  the  Savin  Rock  line  for  the  day. 

He  compared  experiences  with  the  others  at  supper. 
Jervis  was  in  the  hospital,  with  a  stove-in  rib;  Neil's 
ear  wore  a  bandage ;  others  were  laid  up  wholly  or  partly. 
Two  of  the  strikers  had  been  shot  in  an  open  battle  near 
the  station,  and  a  guard  killed;  the  hospitals  were  filled 
with  minor  injuries.  The  casualty  list  beat  football, 
they  agreed ;  and  it  was  better  sport ! 

By  the  next  day,  the  streets  were  more  orderly.  Police 
reserves  patrolled  the  focal  spots,  with  orders  to  shoot 
to  kill;  mobmen  were  clubbed  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion, and  arrested  wholesale  for  vagrancy.  The  station 
wagons  clanged  throughout  the  streets  all  day.  Pelham 
went  back  to  his  first  run ;  there  was  no  further  tie-up. 

He  was  switched  later  to  the  line  Neil  was  on.  This 
route  pushed  far  into  the  country,  and  through  the  de- 
pressing filth  of  a  mill  suburb.  Jeering  lanes  of  factory 


THE  JUDSONS  75 

men  and  women  lined  the  roadway;  most  of  them,  Pel- 
ham  judged  from  the  chatter,  must  be  Polacks.  There 
was  one  persistent  group  centered  around  the  tail  of  a 
cart.  Here  a  woman  gesticulated  fiercely  beneath  a  red 
banner. 

A  stooping  giant  of  a  man,  six  feet  three  at  least, 
turned  from  the  speaker's  words  to  shake  his  fist  at  the 
approaching  car  and  scream  profanely  at  its  driver.  "You 
lousy  scab!  You  dam'  thief!" 

Pelham,  secure  in  reliance  on  the  bluecoat  beside  him, 
stopped  the  car.  "You're  a  liar,"  he  said  shortly.  "Go 
on  about  your  work,  instead  of  swearing  at  peaceful 
citizens." 

The  man  sputtered  in  frenzy.  "This  was  my  run, 

you "  The  profanity  spilled  recklessly.  "Stealing 

the  bread  out  of  working  men's  mouths,  you  white-livered 
scab!" 

Pelham  turned  quickly.  "Why  don't  you  arrest  that 
man,  officer?" 

The  protector  looked  at  him  coolly ;  he  spat  deliberately 
over  the  railing.  "Fer  what?  He's  only  telling  the 
truth.  You  are  a  scab,  now,  ain't  you?"  He  scolded 
the  enraged  striker.  "Go  on,  Jimmy.  Cool  off  some- 
where. That  ain't  no  way  to  talk  to  a  motorman  from 
the  Yaleses  college,  that  ain't.  You  don't  wanter  get 
run  in." 

The  man  cursed  himself  out  of  their  sight.  Pelham 
drove  in  more  thoughtfully. 

Paul,  when  he  learned  of  it,  was  not  too  proud  of 
his  son's  performance.  -There  was  no  use  in  getting 
one's  head  cracked  unnecessarily,  he  wrote.  But  he  was 
as  pleased  as  Pelham  at  the  successful  crushing  of  the 
strike,  which  came  with  startling  quickness  after  the 
men  had  been  out  five  days.  The  union  officials  made 


76  MOUNTAIN 

some  agreement  with  the  company,  and  vanished  to 
Boston.  Some  of  the  men  were  taken  back,  some  were 
not.  Sheff  resumed  its  normal  placidity. 

"Your  life  is  too  valuable,  Pelham,"  said  his  father's 
letter,  "to  risk  in  direct  contact  with  the  white  trash  that 
gather  when  a  strike  is  declared.  Some  of  the  men  on 
the  mountain  are  just  as  worthless  and  discontented.  We 
know  how  to  handle  them  here.  .  .  . 

"You  might  visit  Senator  Todd  Johnson  when  you 
pass  through  Washington.  H?e  is  a  good  man  to  keep  in 
touch  with. 

"Mary  and  the  two  youngest  got  off  to  St.  Simon's 
Island  yesterday.  The  girls  follow  on  Monday.  That 
will  leave  us  to  keep  the  work  up  during  the  summer. 

"The  first  report  shows  291  tons  from  the  Forty  this 
month,  and  nearly  as  much  from  the  other  property. 
We're  getting  started  slowly. 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  you  get  back  and  down  to  work." 

Pelham  took  the  first  train  South,  after  commencement 
was  over. 


VIII 

"1T7"ELL,  young  man,  ready  to  go  to  work?" 
"This  morning,  father." 

Paul  took  up  the  extra  slack  in  his  belt.  "Oh,  we 
won't  rush  you.  You'd  better  take  the  first  week  off 
and  visit  the  Barbours.  They're  getting  pretty  old,  Pel- 
ham  ;  they'll  appreciate  it." 

"All  right,  sir." 

Paul  stopped  to  examine  a  badly-hung  gate,  sagging 
weakly  away  from  its  post.  "I'll  fire  that  lazy  Peter,  if 
he  doesn't  'tend  to  these  hinges  better.  A  cow  could 
push  through  and  eat  up  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of 
shrubs  before  your  mother  caught  on.  .  .  .  We'll  have 
you  meet  some  of  the  men." 

They  came  up  behind  a  stubby,  middle-aged  Irishman, 
loudly  ordering  a  group  of  white  workers  who  were 
timbering  the  newest  mine  entrances.  "D'ye  want  the 
whole  mountain  to  fall  on  you?  Jam  it  under  that  slide 
rock,  man." 

At  the  father's  hail  he  turned  genially.  "Mornin1,  Mr. 
Judson." 

"This  is  the  son  I  was  telling  you  about.  Pelham,  this 
is  Tom  Hewin,  who  keeps  things  moving  in  the  mines." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir."  There  was  a  servile  hump 
to  his  shoulders;  a  deprecating  instability  in  his  glance 
greeted  the  boy.  "Hey,  Jim."  A  youth  of  Pelham's  age, 
an  uncertain  smile  dancing  from  his  eyes,  advanced 
from  the  overalled  workers.  "This  is  my  boy,  sir.  I'm 
learnin'  him  to  be  a  boss  miner  too."  Hewin's  flattened 
thumb  pointed  to  Pelham.  "Want  me  to  put  him  to 
work,  sir?" 

77 


78  MOUNTAIN 

"He'll  report  next  Monday." 

Tom  scratched  a  bristly  head.  "They'll  be  plenty  for 
you  to  do,  sir." 

"How's  that  drain  in  Number  n,  Tom?" 

Pelham  admired  his  father's  vigorous  handling  of  the 
varying  questions.  His  own  opinion  was  asked  about 
one  matter,  as  they  inspected  the  cut-ins  of  the  ramp 
cleaving  Crenshaw  Hill.  He  backed  up  Hewin's  so- 
lution; the  facile  superintendent  promptly  flattered  the 
young  man's  grasp  of  the  problem. 

As  they  walked  back  to  breakfast,  Paul  shared  a 
further  insight  into  the  human  element  of  the  work. 
"Yes,  he's  a  good  man  to  have  there.  He  directed  one 
of  the  Birrell-Florence  mines  for  two  years;  quit  in 
some  row  or  other.  He  doesn't  get  along  too  well  with 
his  men.  I  don't  trust  him;  he'll  pad  the  rolls,  and 
undermark  the  weights,  every  chance  you  give  him.  He'd 
steal  from  the  niggers  and  miners,  and  from  me  as  well, 
if  I'd  let  him.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  I'll  be  glad  to 
have  you  on  the  job.  .  .  .  He  gets  things  done." 

"What  will  I  do,  father?" 

"You're  to  be  his  assistant;  he'll  keep  you  busy.  Fifty 
a  week,  to  begin  with.  When  you're  worth  more,  we'll 
increase  it." 

Pelham's  mind  played  around  the  conversation  all 
during  the  trip  to  Jackson  that  followed.  It  was  not 
just  what  he  had  fancied,  he  told  himself,  staring  at 
the  green  hump-backed  hills  along  the  road.  Why  should 
he  not  be  head  of  the  operations  ?  But  that  could  come ; 
he  must  show  his  worth  first. 

There  was  a  persistent  shock  of  disappointment  in 
the  amount  he  was  to  receive.  It  was  hardly  respectable. 
His  allowance  since  junior  year  had  been  five  thousand. 
.  .  .  Well,  he  could  make  it  do. 


THE  JUDSONS  79 

His  self-complacency  returned  at  the  grandparents'. 
Jimmy,  who  had  still  a  year  in  law  school,  was  dazzled 
by  the  Sheff  product;  Lil,  who  had  rounded  into  ample, 
magnolia-like  beauty,  capitulated  devoutly.  The  old 
people's  loving  pride  warmed  him ;  but  its  flavor  cloyed. 
He  was  glad  at  the  end  of  the  week  to  return  his  atten- 
tion to  the  mountain. 

Hewin  found  the  boy  quick  at  observation,  and  a  good 
listener;  the  contact  evidently  suited  the  Irishman  im- 
mensely. Now  was  the  chance,  he  decided,  to  solidify 
himself  with  the  Judsons.  Pelham  became  familiar  with 
every  detail  of  the  work.  He  ended  with  a  confused 
impression  that  the  bustling  superintendent  had  either 
done  every  stroke  with  his  own  battered  hands,  or  had 
devised  and  inspired  it. 

"They're  good  workers,"  he  concluded,  marveling  at 
the  patent  energy. 

"They'd  better  be." 

With  such  a  spirit,  anything  was  possible.  It  was 
only  later  that  he  realized  that  this  was  surface  activity ; 
that  the  leisurely  gait  of  negroes  and  whites  alike  quick- 
ened only  when  the  boss  was  in  sight. 

The  first  ramp  lay  to  the  north  of  the  house,  through 
what  was  still  called  "Coaldale  the  Second ;"  the  second, 
on  the  Logan  land  south  of  the  gap,  was  put  into  his 
especial  care.  He  bent  over  blueprints  and  calculations, 
verifying  what  had  been  planned.  Careless  bits  of  figur- 
ing were  corrected;  he  found  one  plot  of  openings  con- 
trary to  all  reason. 

"Your  number  two  will  collide  with  the  entry  above, 
Mr.  Hewin.  Look — it  ought  to  be  opposite  five,  here." 

Tom  studied  the  diagram  from  all  angles,  then  laid  it 
down.  "Figurin'  ain't  everything,  Mr.  Judson.  You've 
got  to  know  your  ground.  Bring  along  them  maps." 


8o  MOUNTAIN 

They  mounted  above  the  level  where  the  negroes  were 
timing  their  pick  strokes  with  a  wailing  improvised  chant, 
reminiscent  of  cotton  field  spirituals. 

"See  that  flaw  ?  All  your  figgers  don't  take  no  account 
of  it.  We  cut  in  below  here,  then  bend  in  to  the  left. 
This  way.  .  .  .  When  I  was  with  the  Birrell-Florence 
folks,  we  went  right  in  under  a  flaw.  The  dam'  timbers 
slipped  one  day,  an'  we  lost  four  mules,  as  well  as  half 
a  dozen  niggers.  You  got  to  know  your  ground." 

Pelham  straightened  the  line  a  trifle,  corrected  the 
figures,  and  the  cutting  went  on.  The  third  month 
showed  a  marked  improvement  over  the  second. 

Gradually  he  noticed  that,  while  there  was  a  great  show 
of  deep  mining  with  the  first  ramp  and  the  delayed 
second  one;  the  main  vigor  was  bent  to  the  easier  dis- 
lodging of  the  outcrop. 

He  studied  the  agreements,  measured  the  cleared  areas 
carefully,  and  carried  his  discoveries  to  Paul. 

The  father  took  the  matter  up  with  Hewin.  "How 
far  have  you  gone  to  the  north,  past  the  mouth  of  the 
ramp  ?" 

"About  four  hundred  feet,  sir." 

"Measure  it." 

The  tape  showed  five  hundred  forty. 

"By  the  agreement,  you  couldn't  go  beyond  four  hun- 
dred and  twenty  feet,  with  eight  ramp  openings." 

"Them  damn'  niggers  must  a  moved  the  stob  I  put  in. 
We  won't  go  no  further." 

The  outcrop-scraping  continued  fifty  feet,  before 
another  opening  was  made. 

World-unsettling  events  .were  happening,  during  the 
weeks  when  this  minor  dispute  disturbed  the  serenity 
of  relations  on  the  mountain  between  owner  and  con- 
tractors. The  same  day  that  Pelham  reported  the  re- 
peated trespass  on  the  easy  outcrop,  the  startled  papers 


THE  JUDSONS  81 

told  of  the  vaster  trespass  across  the  convenient  miles 
of  Belgium,  which  was  bitterly  contesting  the  gray-green 
flood  of  alien  soldiers.  The  father  turned  from  the 
headlines  to  discuss,  with  caustic  vigor,  the  annoyance 
nearer  home. 

"There's  no  way  to  stop  it,  Pelham.  They'll  rob  the 
surface,  no  matter  what  the  contract  reads.  It's  so  much 
cheaper  to  get  at  ...  lazy  scoundrels !  It  'ud  take  six 
years  in  court  to  settle  it.  Meanwhile,  the  mine  would 
be  locked  up  tighter  than  a  barrel." 

"You  could  get  damages." 

"Not  a  cent  .  .  .  not  solvent.  Keep  your  eye  on 
them;  we'll  play  them  along.  Bad  as  this  war  promises 
to  be,  somebody's  liable  to  need  our  iron.  Prices  must 
boost ;  the  Hewin  contract  will  hold  our  cost  down.  We 
won't  lose." 

There  were  few  minds  in  Adamsville,  at  this  time,  that 
saw  even  this  much  connection  between  the  remote 
struggle  and  placid  home  affairs. 

In  the  spring,  the  third  ramp  was  cut — half  a  mile  to 
the  north,  beyond  the  crest  of  Crenshaw  Hill,  through 
a  row  of  trees  called  the  Locust  Hedge.  North  of  its 
base,  on  a  wide  bowl-like  opening,  the  shacks  and  stock- 
ades for  certain  convict  miners  were  built.  Paul's  bid 
for  two  hundred  of  the  State  long  termers  had  been 
successful;  these  were  isolated  near  the  extreme  end  of 
the  Crenshaw  property,  and  kept  at  the  deeper  mining 
in  the  third  series  of  entries. 

Nearer  Hillcrest,  the  underbrushed  ridge  at  the  foot 
of  the  higher  peak  was  cleared,  and  houses  were  built  for 
workers  who  did  not  live  in  Adamsville,  or  Lilydale,  the 
negro  settlement  saddling  the  low  Sand  Mountains.  A 
prong  of  the  mountain  shielded  the  Judson  home  from 
this  shack  town ;  otherwise  the  screams,  shots,  and  general 
disorder  around  pay  days  would  have  driven  away  the 


82  MOUNTAIN 

family.  "Hewintown"  was  the  railroad's  designation 
for  the  flag  station  below  it ;  "Hewin's  Hell  Hole"  was 
its  usual  title. 

Here  Tom  Hewin  brought  the  three  hundred  miners 
from  Pennsylvania,  after  he  had  discharged  several  gangs 
who  fretted  under  the  talk  of  union  agitators. 

Pelham  helped  erect  the  larger  frame  houses  for  the 
commissary,  the  office,  and  the  overseers'  homes.  Fre- 
quently he  idled  through  the  two  settlements,  and  tried 
in  awkward  fashion  to  understand  the  personal  side  of 
the  workers.  They  answered  civilly  questions  about 
their  work ;  when  he  tried  to  go  further,  they  drew  back, 
surly  and  distrustful.  He  could  not  understand  this  wall 
of  reserve. 

One  weazened  grouch,  Hank  Burns,  who  had  been 
a  miner  for  forty  years,  tried  to  account  for  it.  "Why 
should  they  trust  you,  Mr.  Judson?  They  know  you 
think  they're  dogs." 

"But  I  don't!" 

"Ain't  you  the  owner's  son?  And  a  superintendent  to 
boot.  What  should  you  have  to  do  with  such  as  us  ?" 

Pelham  gave  way  to  a  gust  of  pique.  "That's  a  silly 
way  to  look  at  it." 

Hank  shook  his  head  sagely.  "Silly  or  not,  Mr.  Jud- 
son, how  else  can  they  look  at  it  ?  You — or  your  paw — 
hires  'em,  don't  he?  You  can  fire  'em  too,  if  you  don't 
like  their  talk.  I  hear  some  of  'em  say,  the  other  day, 
you  was  snoopin'  'round  to  spot  union  men.  They  know 
better  than  to  talk." 

The  other  shook  his  head,  puzzled.    "You  talk  to  me." 

"I  ain't  got  no  folks  I've  got  to  keep  goin'.  If  I'm 
fired,  I'm  fired.  'Twon't  be  the  first  time.  'N'  I  don't 
shoot  off  my  mouth  any  too  much,  either.  Your  job  is 
to  keep  'em  workin',  an'  pay  'em  what  you  got  to.  Their 
job  is  to  get  what  they  can.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 


THE  JUDSONS  83 

"The  good  of  the  mines  is  their  good." 

The  old  man  chuckled  noiselessly.  "I  ain't  never  seen 
it,  if  it  is.  You  want  what  you  can  get,  they  want  what 
they  can  get.  You  can't  both  have  it.  .  .  ." 

This  was  all  Pelham  could  learn  from  him;  it  was  as 
far  as  he  could  get. 

Tom  Hewin  stayed  on  the  job  at  all  times.  His  son, 
Jim,  every  two  or  three  months,  broke  loose  for  a  half- 
drunk.  He  was  too  crafty  to  drink  to  the  point  where 
he  lost  control  of  himself;  but  he  would  become  mean 
and  quarrelsome.  He  made  a  habit  of  disappearing  at 
these  times  for  a  couple  of  days. 

"Jim  sick  again?"  Pelham  would  ask,  curious  to  piece 
out  what  he  knew  of  the  doings  of  these  inferior  folks. 

Tom  would  lower  at  the  absent  son.  "I  used  to  whale 
his  hide  off  for  it,  Mr.  Judson.  He's  big  enough  to  lick 
me  now.  He  don't  do  no  harm;  an'  I  never  seed  him 
really  intoxercated.  He  makes  good  money;  he'll  be  a 
boss  miner  yet,  even  with  this  here  foolin'.  Booze  an' 
women.  .  .  .  Every  young  man  has  to  shoot  off  steam 
now  an'  then.  They  can't  fool  you,  can  they,  now  ?"  He 
leered  in  low  camaraderie.  "You  been  there  yourself, 
eh?  Don't  tell  me!" 

Pelham  was  sure  that  he  would  not. 

What  with  his  work  and  reading,  Pelham  would  have 
been  content  to  remain  a  recluse  on  the  mountain.  Paul 
drove  this  out  of  his  head  at  once.  "Join  the  University 
Club  as  soon  as  you  can;  we'll  make  your  salary  two 
fifty  a  month,  and  you  can  afford  the  Country  Club  also. 
Circulate;  it's  good  advertising.  We'll  keep  the  hill 
going  somehow." 

The  first  taste  led  to  more ;  soon  he  was  a  regular  part 
of  the  life  at  the  clubs.  Frequently  he  would  knock  off 
at  four,  while  the  other  workers  were  still  at  their  jobs, 


84  MOUNTAIN 

to  clean  up  and  whizz  over  the  hills  for  a  sharp  match 
of  doubles,  or  an  energetic  foursome. 

He  could  not  manage  a  thrill  of  regret  at  the  news 
that  the  sweetheart  of  a  few  summers  back,  Virginia 
Moore,  was  to  be  married  in  October.  There  was  a  new 
crop  of  debutantes,  and  most  of  the  girls  of  his  college 
days  still  put  themselves  out  to  attract  him.  For  a  few 
months  he  rushed  Nellie  Tolliver,  a  brilliant  hand  at 
auction;  but  he  tired  of  her  stiff  preoccupation  with  the 
narrow  limits  of  gossiping  small  talk. 

One  of  his  sister  Nell's  friends,  Dorothy  Meade,  was 
more  to  his  liking.  She  had  come  from  some  level  of 
Washington  social  life,  to  marry  Lyman  Meade,  the 
local  representative  of  the  Interstate  Power  Company. 
Lyman  went  his  own  easy  way,  and  she  hers.  Chic,  with 
an  orderly  aureole  of  fluffy  gold  hair,  sparkling  gray 
eyes  and  a  perpetual  display  of  more  of  her  shoulders 
and  breast  than  the  lax  club  convention  permitted,  her 
only  difficulty  was  in  repelling  admirers. 

Saturdays  were  the  regular  dinner  nights  at  the 
Country  Club ;  Dorothy  was  the  final  fluffy  attraction  that 
turned  Pelham  into  an  invariable  attender.  He  annexed 
himself  to  the  lively  group  that  ringed  her  on  these  oc- 
casions, to  the  amusement  of  her  gayer  admirers. 

"Here's  Dots,  poaching  on  the  bassinet  preserve !"  some 
professional  bachelor,  his  head  innocent  alike  of  hair  and 
illusions,  would  indict. 

"First  childhood  or  second,  why  should  I  discrimi- 
nate?" Her  cheerful  offensive  routed  the  covetous 
critics. 

Dorothy's  young  moth  was  at  least  persistent.  Her 
attractive  bungalow  dominated  the  hilly  head  of  a  by- 
street near  the  links,  and  Pelham  formed  the  habit  of 
dropping  in  for  Sunday  suppers.  She  was  good  to  her 


THE  JUDSONS  85 

maids,  preparing  and  serving  herself  the  crisp  salad  mys- 
teries and  froth-crowned  desserts. 

"Can't  I  help  some  way?" 

Her  eyes  would  twinkle  adorably.  "Mamma's  helpful 
boy!  Here,  let  me  put  this  apron  on  you!" 

He  could  feel  her  voluble  fingers  whisper  to  him,  as 
they  shaped  the  knot ;  she  would  stand  close  before  him, 
to  see  that  the  linen  badge  of  utility  hung  evenly  from 
his  stretched  shoulders.  This  disturbed  the  regularity 
of  his  heart -beats;  but  then,  she  was  Lyman's  wife,  re- 
flected Pelham.  When  the  husband  was  present,  he 
smiled  enviously  at  the  timid  and  satisfied  adoration  that 
Pelham's  efforts  to  conceal  published  the  more. 

Despite  all  of  his  reading,  Dorothy's  marriage  made 
her,  in  his  brown  adolescent  eyes,  wholly  intangible.  She 
could  not  have  been  guarded  more  effectually  by  the 
Chinese  Wall,  or  a  thicket  of  fire,  with  a  paralyzed  Sieg- 
fried moping  without.  Her  liberal  hints  encountered  an 
adamant  obtuseness;  he  was  not  linguist  enough,  in  her 
case,  to  read  correctly  frankly  provocative  pouts,  slanted 
glances,  even  her  gipsying  fingers,  that  brushed  his  like 
the  kiss  of  wind-wedded  blossoms.  These  and  more  be- 
came substance  of  his  erotic  fancies ;  but  the  world  of 
fantasy  and  of  reality,  in  this  case,  he  knew  could  never 
blend. 

His  amorous  stupidity  often  exasperated  her. 

One  night  she  yielded  a  narrow  seat  for  him  on  the 
porch-swing,  an  openly  demanded  tete-a-tete,  although 
the  cushions  on  the  stone  steps  and  the  settles  within 
were  warm  with  gossiping  friends.  "You're  always  so 
mournful  when  you're  with  me,  Pelham." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Meade!"  She  tied  his  tongue  when  it 
came  to  repartee. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Judson,"  she  mimicked  fretfully;  then  af- 


86  MOUNTAIN 

firmed  with  decision,  "you  must  meet  Jan«  Lauderdale. 
She's  about  your  tempo." 

His  eyes  widened  apprehensively;  Dorothy's  caprices 
were  sometimes  alarming.  "Who's  she?" 

"The  most  serious  little  soul  I  know  .  .  .  and  the 
dearest.  You'll  like  her,  when  you  meet  her." 

"When?" 

"Planning  to  desert  me  already,  sir !  I'll  have  you  for 
a  month  yet;  she's  away." 

"I'm  satisfied;  it's  your  lead;"  he  dropped  with  some 
gracefulness  into  the  parlance  of  auction  bridge. 

The  time  came  when  she  took  the  lead.  The  crowd 
were  noisy  at  the  piano  one  night,  when  Dorothy  turned 
to  him,  in  the  tiny  butler's  pantry,  laying  her  piled 
platter  on  a  shelf  behind  his  head.  Lifting  her  chin,  she 
said  provokingly,  "Don't  you  want  to  kiss  me,  Pelham  ?" 

The  suggestion  plunged  him  under  a  quick  disquieting 
flood  of  emotion.  One  of  his  precious  ideals  citadeling 
womanhood  crumbled  with  intuitive  rapidity.  A  warm 
inner  lash  flushed  his  neck  and  cheeks.  Beyond  this  be- 
trayal, which  was  of  short  duration,  he  showed  no  sign 
of  this  delicious  incarnation  of  his  remotely  fantasied 
passion,  this  focalizing  on  the  solid  earth  of  an  ethereal 
hunger  and  its  satisfaction. 

His  arms  rounded  her ;  he  brought  his  lips  down  to  her 
level;  her  own,  moist  and  cool,  opened  within  his.  The 
ecstatic  sensation  closed  his  eyes. 

She  slapped  him  lightly  on  the  cheek.  "That's  enough, 
now,  you  big  boy!" 

All  that  evening  he  kept  his  eyes  on  her,  and  managed 
a  pilfered  caress  just  before  leaving. 

Her  eyes  laughed  at  him.  "Do  you  know,  Pelham, 
I'm  not  sure  I'll  wish  you  on  Jane,  after  all !" 

He  began  to  time  his  visits  to  the  Meade  house  so  that 
they  found  Lyman  away.  One  cool  dusk — Lyman  was 


THE  JUDSONS  87 

in  Philadelphia  for  the  week — he  veered  carefully  to 
something  that  was  worrying  him.  "Nell — my  sister — 
swears  that  the  crowd  are  talking  about  us,  Dorothy." 

"Wants  to  wean  you?"  She  laughed  mellowly,  the 
fluffy  crown  of  curled  gold  dancing,  as  if  sharing  the 
mirth.  "They've  talked  about  Lyman  for  years,  now; 
it  hasn't  slowed  him.  I  like  you  far  too  much,  boy  dear, 
to  give  you  up  for  idle  tongues." 

"I  hate  to  have  them  mention  you."  He  twitched  rest- 
lessly. "You  know  what  you're  doing  to  me,  Dorothy. 
I've  been  straight  ...  so  far.  You're  setting  me  on 
fire.  This  is  a  slippery  hill  to  keep  straight  on;  I  might 
skid." 

"Meaning  ?"  She  achieved  two  passable  smoke  rings — 
the  effort  after  them  was  her  chief  motive  in  smoking — 
and  idly  planned  a  gown,  tinted  like  the  furnace-glowing 
sky,  with  twined  gray  smoke-wreaths  in  couples  and  trios 
— grouped  figures  that  blent  into  one,  then  idly  drifted 
apart. 

"Kissing's  only  excuse  is  as  a  prelude  to  love's  physical 
finale,"  he  answered  straightly.  The  dusk  hid  her  wry 
face,  as  he  continued,  "Lyman's  in  the  way.  You  say 
you  still  love  him." 

"Yes.  .  .  ."  She  paraphrased,  with  a  show  of  pon- 
dering, something  she  had  read  in  a  showy  woman's 
magazine.  "He  can't  help  being  what  he  is.  None  of 
us  can  change  the  material,  though  we  may  alter  the 
pattern,  or  dye  the  goods.  .  .  .  Much  good  that  would 
do." 

"The  lady  turned  philosopher!"  His  hand  caressed 
her  fluffy  short  sleeve  caressingly.  "So  .  .  .  you  won't 
take  me  for  a  lover." 

"Hardly,"  she  laughed  with  sober  hunger,  grieving  at 
youth's  lack  of  subtlety. 

"You're  setting  me  on  fire,"  he  repeated  with  somber 


88  MOUNTAIN 

relish.  "You'll  drive  me  to  some  other  woman,  or  ... 
women.  You'll  lose  me  either  way;  you  wouldn't  want 
me  then ;  and  I this  can't  last  always." 

"I'll  run  the  risk,  boy." 

The  street  quieted,  as  the  late  cars  from  the  club 
droned  away  into  the  mist-damp  distance.  As  Pelham 
turned  on  his  lamps  for  the  homeward  run,  he  saw  that 
the  great  summer  triangle  had  swung  from  the  east  to 
the  sunset  horizon;  Vega's  white  beauty,  dragging  near 
the  western  hills,  was  smudged  by  the  unsleeping  breath 
of  those  squat  furnaces  and  coke  ovens,  whose  pauseless 
task  was  to  transmute  the  riven  ore  into  iron  sows  and 
pigs — the  first  step  in  the  alchemy  that  transformed  the 
skeleton  of  the  mountain  into  a  restless  trickle  of  gold, 
urging  itself  into  the  overfull  vaults  of  his  father.  Paul 
slept  now,  as  the  son  would  soon  sleep;  but  those  fur- 
naces, and  their  parched  servitors  eternally  feeding  the 
hungry  mouths  of  fire,  did  not  sleep.  Some  tortuous 
filament  of  thought  brought  him  back  to  Dorothy,  and  the 
flaming  furnace  that  she  had  helped  light  within  him 
.  .  .  which  did  not  sleep.  With  all  of  the  scorching 
rapture  which  her  surface  surrender  yielded,  he  won- 
dered if  it  would  not  have  been  better  if  he  had  not  met 
her.  .  .  .  There  were  once  three  men  in  another  fiery 
furnace;  but  they  had  walked  out,  unsinged.  He  knew 
himself  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he  had  no  salamander 
blood;  was  he  strong  enough  to  tempt  the  break  from 
the  charring  spell?  Well,  there  was  time  to  think  of 
that  again. 

When  he  reached  the  highest  crest,  Vega  still  hung 
over  the  sullen  glow  of  a  furnace  throat ;  but  the  smudge 
had  grown  darker. 

The  next  morning  his  father,  who  seemed  gifted  with 
the  ability  to  pierce  unerringly  to  whatever  weighed  on 
the  son's  desires,  went  into  the  subject  with  him.  "This 


THE  JUDSONS  89 

isn't  criticism,  Pelham;  it's  an  attempt  to  help  you  steer 
clear  of  any  mess.  Particularly  with  a  married  woman. 
It  sounds — nasty." 

The  son  was  indignant.  "There's  been  nothing  im- 
proper. I've  taken  a  few  Sunday  suppers  there " 

"Of  course,  of  course."  Pelham  knew  these  dry  tones. 
"It  doesn't  pay.  I  ought  to  have  talked  with  you  before. 
It's  easy  for  a  young  man,  particularly  with  good  finan- 
cial prospects,  to  get  roped  in  by  some  woman,  married 
or  unmarried.  .  .  .  Sometimes  he  has  to  pay  well  to 
get  out." 

"That's  ridiculous,  about  .  .  .  about  .  .  ." 

"It  doesn't  pay,  visiting  one  woman,"  Paul  continued, 
in  matter-of-fact  tones.  "Young  Little  almost  had  to 
marry  one  of  the  telephone  operators  at  the  Stevens 
Hotel.  His  father  loosened  up  five  thousand  to  get  rid 
of  her.  I  haven't  any  money  to  waste  on  your  foolish- 
ness." 

There  was  a  silent  interval. 

"If  you  must  have  a  woman — I  passed  through  the 
stage  myself,  like  all  young  men — don't  you  fool  with 
the  half-decent  kind.  You'd  better  go  right  down  to 
Butler's  Avenue,  and  pay  your  money  down  for  what 
you  get.  There's  less  chance  of  diseases — they  have 
medical  inspection.  And  it  avoids  a  serious  mix-up." 

Pelham's  face  went  white.  "I  don't  need  that  kind  of 
advice.  I've  kept  straight  so  far;  I  intend  to  keep  so, 
until  I'm  married.  Money  couldn't  pay  me  to  go  there." 

The  older  man  exhaled  noisily.  "Remember  what  I 
said." 

A  swelling  white  rage  choked  the  boy's  voice.  "Does — 
does  mother  know  that  you  went  to — such  places?" 

Paul  turned  sharply.  "Of  course  not.  There  are 
some  things  women  are  supposed  to  know  nothing 
about" 


90  MOUNTAIN 

That  was  the  end  of  the  discussion. 

Pelham  gradually  decreased  the  frequency  of  his  visits ; 
but  he  still  managed  precious  afternoons  with  her  in 
his  car,  and  occasional  evenings,  which  left  him  irritat- 
ingly  disturbed.  He  wanted  to  see  more  of  her,  and 
knew  that  he  should  see  less ;  he  was  eager  even  to  hear 
her  name  mentioned  at  home,  but  embarrassed  if  it  was. 

"Listen,  Nell,"  he  interposed  to  his  sister,  when  he 
was  helping  to  draw  up  the  list  of  guests  for  a  summer 
fete  the  girls  planned.  "You  used  to  be  pretty  fond  of 
Mrs.  Meade." 

"Not  much !    You  can't  have  your  Dorothy  here." 

Pelham  was  exasperated  with  the  whole  lot — always 
excepting  his  mother.  His  long  confidences  with  her  had 
begun  when  he  was  a  child,  and  still  were  a  pleasure  and 
a  panacea.  One  of  these  talks  gave  aid  to  his  bewilder- 
ment about  Dorothy,  although  she  was  not  mentioned.  It 
had  started  inconsequentially  with  a  discussion  of  little 
Ned's  conduct,  and  dipped  into  many  topics.  In  the 
course  of  it,  he  promised  to  sound  both  the  brothers  on 
their  attitude  toward  girls,  and  the  annoying  problem  of 
sex. 

"You  can  do  much  more  with  the  boys  than  I,  Pelham. 
They'll  listen  to  an  older  brother,  where  they  wouldn't 
listen  to  their  mother." 

Lovingly  he  patted  the  smooth  flush  of  her  cheek,  de- 
lighting in  the  shy  wildrose  beauty  of  her  face.  His 
fingers  crept  from  this  to  the  straight  chestnut  folds  of 
her  hair,  longing  to  stroke  its  unbound  cascades,  and  let 
them  curtain  his  face,  as  she  had  done  when  he  was  a 
little  boy  in  bed ;  as  she  still  sometimes  did. 

Then  he  answered  her.  "I  listened  to  you,  mother. 
It  was  your  words  and  your  wishes  that  have  kept  me 
straight." 

"And,  please  God,  they  will  always  keep  my  own  dear 


THE  JUDSONS  91 

son  the  finest,  cleanest,  purest  man  in  the  world." 
Pelham  was  wholly  under  the  spell  of  Mary's  ideal- 
istic phrases,  her  sugary  circumlocutions  and  romantic 
evasions  of  annoying  facts.  She  had  found  it  impos- 
sible to  meet  Paul's  brutal  logic  with  her  ill-trained  femi- 
nine inconsecutiveness ;  the  course  she  took  was  an  ac- 
ceptance couched  in  some  inoffensive  generality  or  plati- 
tude, with  a  sentimentalized  deity  as  authority  for  her 
stand.  Paul  pierced  through  the  unmeaning  glamor ;  but 
the  children  did  not.  When  things  went  smashing,  con- 
trary to  her  plans  and  wishes,  somehow  God  willed  it  ... 
a  convenient,  kindly-disposed  arranger,  unless  Paul's 
vigorous  planning  took  precedence.  Her  thirty-nine  con- 
nubial articles  could  be  summed  up  in  one:  Paul  could 
not  be  wrong,  in  the  children's  eyes;  her  wifely  duty 
bound  her  to  wholesale  support,  even  of  his  errors  or 
occasional  unfairnesses.  "He  is  your  father,  remember," 
blanketed  everything.  "God  only  knows  how  much  I 
love  you,"  was  her  unfruitful  solace  to  them.  And  she 
did  love  them,  and  gave  of  her  best  for  them,  except 
where  fealty  to  Paul,  who  came  immovably  first,  inter- 
vened. 

This  prayer  of  hers  for  the  son's  purity  continued  to 
ward  off  the  imperative  temptations  that  nearness  to 
Dorothy,  or  thoughts  of  Butler's  Avenue,  spread  around 
him.  It  fell  on  his  ears  now  with  all  of  the  old  power. 
He  sat,  rubbing  her  hand  against  his  cheek,  staring 
off  to  the  distant  vagueness  that  was  Shadow  Mountain. 
The  dun  clouds  along  the  horizon  had  obscured  its  out- 
line; the  sky  to  the  south  was  a  sickly  copper.  Above 
it  pulsed  and  banded  a  tumult  of  smoke  gray  clouds ;  the 
eastern  horizon  was  a  slate  blue,  rapidly  darkening.  A 
far  rumble  of  muttered  thunder  was  followed  by  the 
vivid  glare  of  sheet  lightning,  which  brought  into  sharp 
relief  the  serrated  crest  of  the  distant  hills. 


92  MOUNTAIN 

Suddenly  out  of  the  dull  sky  came  a  quick  spatter  of 
big  drops.  She  slipped  from  her  son's  embrace,  and  went 
in  to  see  to  windows  and  doors. 

He  moved  a  lazy  flanneled  leg  further  from  the  edge 
of  the  porch,  where  the  splashing  drops  bounced  inward. 

There  was  a  short  lull.  He  rose,  as  a  white  tongue 
of  fire  forked  its  way  toward"  the  near  summit  of  Shadow 
Mountain,  followed  immediately  by  a  deafening  patter- 
ing rattle  of  thunder. 

Hurrying  in  from  the  front  porch,  his  mother  met  him, 
a  strained  look  in  her  eyes.  "There's  a  storm  coming, 
Pell.  Your  father's  on  the  way  home.  I  hope  it  doesn't 
catch  him." 

Pelham  moved  idly  into  the  library.  Out  of  the  side 
window  he  could  see  the  approaching  wall  of  misty  rain, 
blotting  out  the  familiar  outlines  of  trees,  the  negro  cot- 
tage beyond  the  spring  depression,  the  spring  buildings, 
the  outhouses.  How  quiet,  how  unerring  and  irresistible 
its  course ! 

The  marching  fusillade  of  drops  touched  the  side  of 
the  barn,  and  darkened  it  ominously:  from  a  soft  gray 
it  shaded  swiftly  to  a  rain-drenched  black.  Now  it  men- 
aced the  house  itself;  now  the  impartial  advance  of  the 
shrapnel,  in  slanting  crystal  lines,  brought  the  house  be- 
neath its  unrelenting  fire. 

Pelham  switched  on  the  light,  and  pulled  out  an  unread 
volume  of  Stevenson.  His  fingers  loafed  over  the  leaves, 
as  he  listened  to  the  persistent  drive  of  the  storm. 


IX 

THE  rain  exhausted  its  ammunition  during  the  night ; 
a  clear  truce  followed.  The  bright  green  cleanliness 
of  leaves,  the  reburnished  brilliance  of  golden-glow  and 
flaming  canna,  showed  the  hill  heartened  by  the  hours  of 
storm. 

But  there  was  nothing  morning-minded  in  Pelham's 
soul,  as  he  irked  over  the  day's  details  at  the  mines.  All 
that  he  had  to  do  seemed  mechanical,  inconsequential ; 
the  planning  had  been  done  already — his  admirable  role 
was  that  of  a  cog,  touching  off  other  cogs  to  their  diverse 
tasks  in  the  vast  mechanism  that  was  disemboweling  the 
mountain, — the  mothering  mountain,  that  had  once  been 
pal  and  parent  to  him.  Less  than  a  cog,  indeed — for  the 
other  cogs  held  him  as  alien;  he  could  not  share  their 
lives  nor  their  thoughts,  nor  was  he  one  of  the  final 
beneficiaries,  no  matter  what  the  miners  might  think. 

He  knew,  too,  that  his  father  was  becoming  as  alien 
to  him  as  these  miners  held  that  the  son  was  to  them. 
Pelham  was  wrapped  up  in  the  minutiae  of  the  mining; 
and  this  was  a  book  in  which  Paul  had  covered  only  the 
first  simple  chapters.  Again,  the  son's  reading  at  the 
northern  college,  and  the  intangible  outlook  acquired 
there,  opened  vistas  that  Paul  could  not  share;  and  in 
those  matters  where  the  two  wills  came  into  direct 
touch,  such  as  marrying  "where  money  was,"  and  rela- 
tionship with  women,  they  were  pole-distant  apart.  The 
son,  in  his  youthful  restlessness,  was  at  outs  with  the 
whole  situation ;  he  was  bored  with  it,  as  he  was  with  the 
young  concerns  of  his  brothers,  the  chatter  of  Nell  and 

93 


94  MOUNTAIN 

Sue,  and  the  immeasurable  vapidity  of  Nellie  Tolliver, 
Lane  Cullom,  Dorothy  Meade,  the  whole  group  of 
Adamsville's  stale,  unprofitable  friends,  young  and  old. 
There  was,  of  course,  his  mother  .  .  .  and  the  mountain  ; 
but  she  was  part  and  parcel  of  Paul's  existence,  too ;  and 
the  mountain  seemed  strangely  uncommunicative  and 
passive,  these  days,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  make  the 
break,  to  take  an  affirmative  step  needed  to  quicken  his 
thinking  and  being. 

The  insipid  promise  of  the  afternoon's  fete,  for  in- 
stance— were  his  days  to  be  an  unending  vista  of  such 
chatter,  and  trivial  preening  and  strutting  of  visionless 
girls  and  young  men  ?  Dorothy  offered  more  than  that ; 
yet  he  was  singularly  at  odds  with  himself  over  her.  To 
be  burnt  by  a  fire  he  could  not  touch:  to  chain  himself, 
a  voluntary  Tantalus,  before  perilous  sweets  just  out  of 
reach — an  admirable  role!  It  was  in  his  own  hands  to 
end  it;  and  since  Paul's  advice  about  Butler's  Avenue 
did  not  condemn  the  thing  that  he  shrank  from  in  Doro- 
thy's case,  he  was  repelled  by  the  remembrance  that  he 
had  ever  considered  ending  the  purity  that  Mary  had 
held  him  to. 

After  all,  his  sisters'  fete  would  be  better  than  that. 

But  when  he  had  carefully  dressed  for  it,  and  was 
immersed  in  its  shallow  flippancy,  he  reacted  the  other 
way.  Lettuce  sandwiches  and  lemonade ! — Good  God ! 
Determined  to  dodge  the  rest  of  it,  he  sidled  around  to 
the  garage,  and  sneaked  out  his  car.  When  the  fresh 
crest  breeze  sprayed  over  his  face,  he  pressed  on  the  ac- 
celerator, and  only  slowed  with  the  turn  into  the  road 
to  the  city. 

At  his  arrival  before  the  darkened  Meade  bungalow, 
two  voices  reached  him  from  Dorothy's  lit  boudoir.  His 
feet  scraped  slowly  up  the  steps;  after  two  thoughtful 


THE  JUDSONS  95 

feints,  he  pushed  the  bell.  There  was  distaste  already  at 
what  lay  before  him ;  life  offered  no  new  way  out. 

"Turn  the  porch  switch,  Pelham,"  Dorothy  called 
from  above.  "Read  the  papers.  .  .  .  We'll  be  down 
soon." 

So  she  even  assumed  his  presence! 

The  swinging  door  was  pushed  outward,  a  short  while 
after  he  had  balanced  himself  on  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  swinging  couch.  A  girl  stepped  out  and  walked  over 
to  him.  He  rose  conventionally. 

"I'm  Jane  Lauderdale,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  pleasing, 
bell-like  quality.  "  'Thea  told  me  to  amuse  you,  until 
she's  ready.  You  are  Mr.  Judson?" 

As  their  minds  clashed  in  preliminary  conversational 
skirmishing,  some  sense  of  her  restful  loveliness  came  to 
him.  It  was  her  eyes  that  spoke  most  clearly — those 
lighted  windows  in  the  spirit's  comely  house.  Jane's  eyes 
were  a  deep,  swimming  brown,  with  an  effect  of  large- 
ness and  roundness,  as  if  she  looked  upon  the  irregular 
march  of  the  hours  with  the  unfeigned  naivete  of  a  child 
— a  semblance  heightened  by  a  starlike  radiance  of  the 
eyes  themselves  and  the  long  shielding  eyelashes.  They 
seemed  less  to  stand  off  and  inspect  him,  than  to  reach  out 
and  envelop  him,  bringing  him  within  their  substance. 
Despite  the  difference  of  shape,  they  held  the  same  deep 
liquidity  of  his  mother's  eyes. 

The  whole  face,  he  fancied,  was  that  of  a  mother — a 
madonna.  The  live  brown  hair  was  smoothed  back  from 
a  high  forehead,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  Grecian  maiden  ; 
there  was  just  a  hint  of  pallor  in  her  complexion,  whose 
whisper  of  lack  of  health  was  negatived  by  glowing 
cheeks  and  sparkling  face.  It  was  not  the  typically  thin- 
visaged  Italian  madonna;  it  was  this  sublimated  into  an 
ampler  shapeliness  of  feature.  The  voice  was  clear  and 


96  MOUNTAIN 

direct,  with  the  lingering  overtones  of  a  gong  quietly 
tapped  in  still  dusk.  Her  presence  was  restful,  comfort- 
ing, and  at  the  same  time  embodied  an  unmistakable  chal- 
lenge to  his  own  nature  and  worthiness. 

The  impression  of  childish  naivete,  he  soon  found, 
must  not  be  stretched  too  far;  her  vision  was  astonish- 
ingly clear  and  comprehending,  with  a  definiteness  that 
at  times  almost  amounted  to  dogmatism. 

Her  mention  of  long-time  friendship  for  "  'Thea"  gave 
something  to  inquire  about.  "You'll  be  at  her  table 
Saturday  evening?" 

"At  the  club,  you  mean?  I  hardly  think  so,"  and  she 
smiled  softly. 

"Don't  you  dance?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But  not  often.  To  be  quite  frank,  the 
people  one  meets  at  the  country  club  are  rather  banal 
.  .  .  even  Dorothy's  friends." 

"Thank  you!     That's  a  touch.     Perhaps  you  bridge." 

"Sometimes  I  make  a  fourth ;  but  cards  are  very  easy 
to  get  absorbed  in,  to  the  point  of  obsession,  don't  you 
think?" 

"I  suppose  so;  if  you  take  them  that  seriously.  Are 
you  fond  of  golf,  or  tennis?" 

A  charming  precision  was  in  her  answers,  as  if  they 
had  been  framed  before.  "Tennis  suits  the  strenuous 
adolescent;  golf,  the  bay-windowed  corporation  head. 
One  is  behind  me ;  the  other  I  pray  never  to  become.  I 
don't  love  corporations,"  she  smiled.  The  smile  covered 
her  preliminary  judgment ;  his  questions  were  banal,  al- 
most gauche ;  but  what  could  one  expect  of  a  worshiper 
of  Dorothy? 

What  did  the  girl  like,  anyhow?  These  were  sure- 
fire topics  with  all  the  rest  Pelham  knew.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
the  Post,  on  the  table  nesting  her  arm.  "Are  you  enjoy- 


THE  JUDSONS  97 

ing  the  latest  Chambers'  story?  I  don't  think  it's  up 
to  'The  Danger  Mark' — though,  of  course,  Cham- 
bers'  " 

"I  enjoyed  part  of  the  opening — you  know,  the  dry- 
goods  inventory — the  lingerie  part.  It's  informative:  a 
Sears-Roebuck  for  the  Broadway  shops.  But — beyond 
that!" 

"What  are  you  interested  in?"  Inability  to  pigeon- 
hole her  among  the  feminine  types  he  was  used  to  called 
forth  this  poverty-stricken  directness. 

"I'm  interested  in  what  you  are  doing,  Mr.  Judson, 
ever  since  'Thea  mentioned  it."  Her  straightforward 
eyes  lit  up  for  the  first  time. 

"She's  done  nothing  but  sing  your  praises  for  the  last 
few  weeks."  He  rose  in  fatuous  gracefulness  to  her 
opening. 

The  frank  eyes  measured  him  coolly.  "What  interest- 
ed me  was  your  work.  You  have  charge  of  the  mining 
at  your  father's  place,  haven't  you?" 

A  bit  dazed  by  the  sudden  shift,  he  told  his  connec- 
tion with  the  management. 

Her  nod  of  satisfaction  puzzled  him.  "I've  always 
wanted  to  learn  something  of  the  other  half  of  the  story; 
I  know  the  miners'  side,  from  work  with  the  United 
Charities.  And  I've  been  studying  reports,  until  a  sheer 
excess  of  wrath  made  me  lay  them  aside." 

What  odd  reading  for  a  girl!  "How  did  you  happen 
to  take  that  up  ?" 

"Mrs.  Anderson  has  me  on  her  Labor  Legislation  Com- 
mittee." She  smiled  gently,  the  eyelids  nearing  one  an- 
other in  unconscious  grace.  "I  tried  to  interest  'Thea  in 
it;  one  meeting  tired  her  out." 

He  had  a  fleeting  vision  of  volatile  Nell  or  finicky  Sue 
reading  a  mining  report.  Evidently  this  Miss  Lauder- 


98  MOUNTAIN 

dale  was  something  of  a  person.  Of  course,  it  wasn't 
exactly  a  woman's  work,  unless  her  charm  earned  it  as  a 
unique  prerogative. 

A  contented  smile  lengthened  his  lips.  "We  treat  our 
miners  pretty  well,  in  this  state." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  general  impression.  I  wonder  if 
you've  gone  into  the  matter  very  thoroughly?"  She  was 
coolly  critical ;  he  felt  a  bit  shriveled  under  her  friendly 
gaze.  "The  South  is  backward,  in  some  things;  but  it's 
waking  up.  You  went  to  Harvard,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Yale  Sheff." 

"Oh,  that's  better.  I  have  a  brother  prepping  at 
Laurenceville ;  he'll  go  to  Sheff  or  Massachusetts  Tech." 

"Better,  you  say?    Just  how?" 

"Yale  at  least  talks  about  democracy."  Her  phrases 
were  astonishingly  direct,  her  intonations  warm  and  en- 
thusiastic. 

"Did  you  go  to  college?"  Pelham  wondered. 

She  shrugged  ever  so  slightly.  "No ;  a  finishing  school 
— Ogontz.  Don't  mention  it,  please.  Tell  me  something 
of  your  work." 

Her  leading  questions  were  beginning  to  reveal  his 
blundering  vacuity  about  labor  conditions  on  the  moun- 
tain, when  Dorothy  fluffed  out.  Her  sharp  eyes  noticed 
at  once  his  sheepish  interest.  "Jane's  been  boring  you 
with  a  discussion  of  the  labor  question,  foreign  and  do- 
mestic, I'm  sure!  I  can't  convert  her.  She'll  worm 
everything  you  know  out  of  you  in  half  an  hour,  I  warn 
you." 

Pelham  agreed,  a  bit  chagrined.  "Yes.  .  .  .  She  was 
just  telling  me  what  I  didn't  know  about  my  men." 

Jane's  lips  curved  open  into  a  smile,  friendly  and 
somehow  approving.  "You'll  learn,  I  think." 

Dorothy  yawned  in  intimate  boredom,  "An  apt  pupil, 


THE  JUDSONS  99 

no  doubt.  ...  I  thought  this  was  the  day  of  the  great 
fete,  Pelham." 

"It  is,"  he  smiled.  "They  are  at  this  moment  enjoy- 
ing lemonade  and  lettuce  sandwiches." 

Dorothy  looked  puzzled;  Jane's  cheeks  crinkled  ap- 
preciatively. 

The  older  woman  turned  to  the  girl  with  ruffled  rude- 
ness. "Stay  on  for  supper,  Jeanne?" 

The  other  shook  her  head.  "I  must  run  along.  Choir 
practice  to-night,"  with  a  mischievous  dimple. 

"Religious  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"The  rector  flourishes  in  my  spiritual  presence." 

"How  is  his  new  reverence?" 

Her  mouth  twisted  piquantly.  "Mushy.  .  .  .  Nice 
boy,  though.  Coming  by  to-morrow?" 

"Between  three  and  four." 

"So  long.  .  .  .  Good  night,  Mr.  Mine  Superintendent." 

Pelham  convoyed  her  to  the  steps,  doubly  unwilling  to 
let  her  go,  as  he  reflected  on  her  fresh  charm,  and  the 
blind  alley  of  the  other  woman's  amorousness.  "I  en- 
joyed our  talk,  Miss  Lauderdale.  Could  the  course  con- 
tinue ?" 

"I'm  always  glad  to  have  a  human  being  to  talk  to.  I'm 
staying  with  the  Andersons;  the  number's  in  the  phone 
book." 

Thoughtfully  he  returned  to  the  porch,  and  a  cretonned 
wicker  chair,  ignoring  the  message  of  the  partly-occu- 
pied couch. 

Inquisitive  gray  eyes  watched  him.    "Do  you  like  her  ?" 

"Oh,  so-so.    She  seems  intelligent." 

"Men  never  do  like  Jeanne,"  she  assured  him,  with  a 
complacent  rippling  gesture  of  her  flounced  body.  "She's 
a  dear,  but  too  dreadfully  serious.  Doesn't  like  dancing, 
and  all "  waving  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  club. 

"Tell  me  something  about  her." 


ioo  MOUNTAIN 

"There  isn't  much.  Jeanne — I  love  the  French  twist, 
don't  you? — Jeanne's  a  queer,  dear  girl,  Pelham;  always 
busy  with  labor  committees,  or  something  as  uplifting 
and  tiresome." 

"I've  never  heard  of  her,  except  from  you.  Is  she 
kin  to  the  Andersons?" 

"Oh,  no;  her  people  are  northern.  She  was  living 
with  an  aunt  in  Philadelphia;  tired  of  her,  and  skipped 
out.  Another  of  her  modern  notions.  .  .  .  She's  intelli- 
gent ;  but,  then,  brains  don't  marry, — they  go  to  Congress. 
Or  is  it  the  other  way?  Anyhow,  Lyman  says  that  I 
have  no  brains."  She  smiled  provocatively. 

This  time  he  came,  in  answer  to  her  pouting,  unworded 
bidding.  He  was  heartily  glad,  as  apparently  eager  arms 
gave  her  the  desired  harborage,  that  the  other  girl  was 
by  now  blocks  away. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  telephoned,  and  on  Friday  eve- 
ning came  by  the  Anderson  house  at  eight. 

"I'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  she  called  from  the  top  of 
the  balustrade. 

The  Andersons  were  away  for  the  month,  he  recalled. 
With  a  pleasant  restlessness,  he  prowled  around  the  cosy 
living-room,  and  finally  selected  a  library  book  on  the 
table.  It  was  by  a  favorite  author;  but  the  title,  "A 
Modern  Utopia,"  was  new  to  him.  He  was  into  the 
second  chapter  when  she  appeared. 

"What  a  remarkable  Wells  book !" 

She  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm.  "You  don't  mind  walk- 
ing, do  you?  .  .  .  It's  stuffy  inside." 

"No  indeed.  Just  a  moment."  He  jotted  a  memoran- 
dum of  the  volume  on  a  handy  envelope  back. 

For  all  the  quiet  grace  of  her  face,  he  noticed  that 
Jane  fitted  into  his  stride  naturally — and  he  was  a  good 
walker.  Instinctively  they  turned  up  the  hill ;  the  height 
beyond  reached  out  an  irresistible  invitation. 


THE  JUDSONS  101 

Her  face  drew  his  eyes  as  inevitably  as  the  mountain 
drew  their  feet.  The  face  had  sparkled  on  the  Meade 
porch;  but  the  brisk  fingering  of  the  night  breeze  woke 
it  to  a  positive  radiance.  When  she  turned  her  eyes  upon 
him,  their  radiant  lashes  enclosed  darker  heavens  than 
those  above,  framing  two  stars  brighter  than  Vega. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  he  urged.  "Dorothy  said 
you  had  'run  away'  from  your  aunt " 

"Sounds  like  a  naughty  little  girl,  doesn't  it  ?  It  wasn't 
quite  that  bad,  though." 

"Think  of  running  away  to  Adamsville !" 

"It  is  an  'H'  of  a  place "  She  looked  quizzically 

at  him;  his  smile  reassured  her.  "I  believe  in  that  kind 
of  hell.  But  it's  nothing,  compared  to  what  I  left."  Her 
lips  closed  decidedly. 

He  would  not  drop  the  subject.  "Your  aunt  was  a 
doctor,  wasn't  she?  And  a  politician?" 

"So  you  are  determined  to  slice  to  the  skeleton.  Yes, 
she's  a  doctor,  runs  her  own  hospital,  and  as  much  of 
the  rest  of  the  city  as  she  can.  She  had  the  running 
habit,  Mr.  Judson;  and,  the  first  few  years  I  was  with 
her,  she  ran  me  too  .  .  .  and  then  ran  me  away."  Un- 
willing lips  locked,  as  if  unhappy  at  the  recollection. 

"Just  why?" 

The  words  were  picked  carefully.  "She  wanted  me  to 
live  as  her  echo — parrot  her  likes  and  dislikes,  accept 
every  limping  bias  as  final  truth.  My  mother  was  the 
same  type."  He  fancied  that  the  eyes  shone  more  lus- 
trously; but  they  were  turned  away.  This  topic,  of  the 
conflict  between  the  girl  and  her  parents,  stirred  him  to 
a  disquieting  curiosity,  avid  for  all  the  details,  the  hows 
and  the  whys ;  as  if  the  answers  held  some  clew  that  he 
sought  for. 

She  answered  the  question  that  he  refrained  from 
asking.  "Yes,  she's  alive ;  I  left  her,  to  go  and  live  with 


102  MOUNTAIN 

Auntie.  The  thing  sounds  unbelievable,  and  ridiculous; 
but  she  wanted  to  keep  me  forever  at  the  age  of  thir- 
teen and  a  half.  Father  was  dead,  and  she  looked  young ; 
a  grown  daughter  was  something  to  explain  away.  Why, 
she  would  have  kept  me  in  knee  skirts  if  the  neighbors 
hadn't  talked.  .  .  .  When  she  married  again,  I  left." 

"Are  those  the  only  times  you  ran  away?"  he  smiled 
the  query. 

She  pointed  to  the  red  scowl  in  the  north,  where  some 
startled  furnace  had  opened  its  giant  eye  beneath  the 
cloudy  mirror  of  the  heavens.  "Isn't  it  marvelous !  .  .  . 
Did  I  ever  run  away  before  ?  I  believe  when  I  was  four 
I  got  tired  of  home — we  were  living  in  Indiana  then — 
packed  my  rag  doll  and  the  puppy  into  my  baby-carriage, 
and  started  out.  .  .  .  They  caught  me  before  I  had  gone 
a  block." 

He  watched  the  vacant  sky.  The  red  glare  had  abrupt- 
ly died.  "You  should  see  the  view  from  our  crest — Cren- 
shaw  Hill.  ...  I  almost  ran  away,  once.  I  got  as  far 
as  the  railroad  station."  He  detailed  the  weeks  of  pun- 
ishment that  had  preceded  his  attempted  escape. 

"Your  father  must  be  a  brute !"  The  contagious  sym- 
pathy that  shook  her  tones  moved  him. 

"He's  really  nice.  .  .  .  His  viewpoint  is  old-fashioned." 

"Old  fashioned!  It's  paleolithic.  No  wonder  you 
ran  away." 

"He  figured  that  I  was  his  son — accent  on  the  'his.' 
He  has  the  idea  still." 

She  stared  moodily  at  the  dark  blankness  of  the  moun- 
tain, then  swung  beside  him  on  a  slender  coping  at  the 
head  of  a  little  park  lost  in  a  bend  of  the  highland 
boulevard. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  the  whole  family  system," 
she  reflected  slowly.  "Parents  never  realize  that  children 


THE  JUDSONS  103 

grow  up.  Why  not  go  to  the  other  extreme,  and  assume 
that  the  child  has  an  individuality  from  the  start?" 

"You  like  children?"  Something  in  his  thoughtful 
tone  threw  a  shadow  of  embarrassment  over  both,  inti- 
mate and  strangely  agreeable. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Very  much." 

The  talk  strayed  gently  to  less  personal  matters.  The 
moon-glow  from  a  street  lamp  drizzing  through  gray- 
green  leaves  fell  upon  her  shoulder;  the  smooth  meet- 
ing, at  the  nape  of  her  neck,  between  shining  chestnut 
hair  and  glowing  flesh  caught  and  held  his  attention;  he 
wanted  to  lean  over  and  kiss  it — harshly — as  he  would 
have  kissed  Dorothy.  What  would  this  girl  do?  What 
would  she  say?  She  did  not  dislike  him,  evidently;  and 
he  found  her  not  only  holding  a  deeper,  more  restful 
physical  charm  than  the  other  woman,  but  also  possessed 
of  a  mental  kinship  that  he  met  for  the  first  time  in  the 
other  sex.  Why,  at  times  her  impressions  seemed  even 
maturer  than  his  own.  How  could  his  thoughts  dare  to 
link  inch-deep  Dorothy  and  this  girl  together!  .  .  .  But 
a  kiss?  No,  he  had  done  enough  of  casual  loving;  he 
would  keep  Jane's  body  inviolate  even  from  the  touch 
of  his  lips,  until  they  were  ready  for  the  final  mating. 
.  .  .  Why  not,  if  she  would  have  him?  What  pitiful 
things,  beside  her,  had  been  pert-tongued  Virginia,  Nellie 
Tolliver,  and  the  rest !  A  madonna  in  face,  a  woman 
worthy  of  all  life's  adorations.  .  .  .  How  astonishing 
was  life,  that  had  flung  them  together,  when  he  might 
have  missed  this  dearest  hour  that  he  had  yet  known ! 

Jane's  thoughts,  too,  were  busier  than  her  words.  He 
was  attractive,  she  had  at  once  decided,  when  measured 
beside  the  superficial  trousered  creatures,  "positively  not 
grasshoppers,"  that  smirked  their  way  through  Adams- 
ville  society;  but  he  was  young,  very  young,  in  his  ideas 


104  MOUNTAIN 

— his  brain  still  swimming  in  the  haze  of  third-hand  opin- 
ions which  his  father  had  inherited  from  slave-wealthy 
forbears.  Men  cherished  easy  mental  ruts  grooved  by 
the  unprogressive  centuries;  pioneering  paths  were  only 
for  the  few.  Pelham  Judson  looked  hopeful ;  no  more. 
Yet  there  was  a  distinguishing,  cordial  charm  in  his 
courtesy ;  it  was  not  all  lip-service.  Poor  kid !  With  a 
father  like  Paul  Judson,  and  a  mother  swathed  in  old 
prejudices  like  a  Memphian  mummy  in  binding  cere- 
ments— how  could  he  be  expected  even  to  see  beyond  his 
fortuitous  rut?  The  brief  age  of  miracles  had  passed. 
But  he  was  a  nice  boy ;  and  with  a  different  mother  ... 
Perhaps  she  could  do  a  little  mothering  herself ;  but  she 
must  be  careful  not  to  let  him  take  her  too  seriously ;  or 
take  her  at  all,  she  smiled  to  herself.  She  had  boasted 
to  Dorothy  that  her  husband  must  be  progressive,  or 
pliable;  Pelham  seemed  neither. 

And  yet  he  would  not  make  such  a  bad  appearance. 
Clean  looking,  athletic,  and  the  son  of  a  Judson — he 
would  not  have  to  be  explained  away  or  apologized  for. 
It  would  be  a  positive  chanty  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
clutches  of  the  usual  Adamsville  girl,  her  brain  a  fricas- 
see of  bridge  scores  and  dancing  dates.  She  smiled  laz- 
ily as  she  reflected  that  he  would  take  to  mothering;  his 
curly  hair  begged  to  be  smoothed  and  tousled.  Well, 
she  would  give  it  a  yank  or  two ;  it  would  serve  Dorothy 
right. 

While  their  words  skimmed  jerkily  above  the  subjects 
in  which  they  were  really  interested,  and  their  thoughts 
weighed,  appraised,  and  at  times  depreciated,  more 
deeply,  an  even  more  underlying,  more  ancient  set  of 
forces  were  at  work.  Eyes  talk  a  language  that  thoughts 
would  deny ;  certain  proximities  bind  closer  than  the  un- 
thinking iron  to  the  insensate  magnet;  above  and  below 
speech  and  meditation,  unseen  selves  meet,  measure,  and 


THE  JUDSONS  105 

mate,  dragging  tardy  consciousness  into  situations  it 
thinks  are  of  its  planning.  These  calls  and  greetings 
date  back  of  life's  long  blundering  on  the  harsh  land,  back 
to  the  life-cradling  sea :  they  speak  with  the  unconscious 
weight  of  slow  millenniums  of  mindless  love.  They  are 
kin  to  the  cord  that  binds  the  falling  apple  to  the  earth, 
the  earth  to  the  sun,  the  sun  to  the  far  starry  outposts  of 
the  visible  universe,  and  it  to  the  invisible  majesty  be- 
yond. The  infinite  pull  of  material  attraction  does  not 
sleep:  nor  do  these  forces  tire  of  their  ancient  tasks. 
Love,  rooted  deep  in  life,  and  born  of  older  ties,  does 
not  cease  its  endless  search,  its  tenacious  intangible  clasp 
of  what  it  needs  to  round  its  unique  need  into  a  blent 
ecstasy. 

There  are  those  who  deny  romance  to  a  love  kin  to 
gravitation  and  issue  of  insect  matings.  They  are  this 
far  right,  that  romance  is  a  late  by-blow  of  the  ageless 
creative  hunger. 

Pelham  took  Jane  back  conscientiously  shortly  after 
eleven.  They  had  not  mentioned  the  mining  situation. 
The  silent  hours  after  their  parting  were  full  of  the 
subtle  working  of  those  hidden  forces  whose  power  they 
had  begun  to  feel,  there  upon  the  narrow  coping  above 
the  little  park. 


THE  next  morning,  Pelham  put  in  a  requisition  at 
the  library  for  the  book  he  had  commenced.  With- 
in the  week  he  received  it. 

It  was  thrilling  reading — setting  at  war,  in  each  chap- 
ter, his  keen  mind,  which  approved  at  once  of  its  unan- 
swerable insight,  and  his  emotions  and  prejudices,  which 
balked  and  struggled  against  the  shattering,  one  by  one, 
of  their  ancient  idols.  It  was  slow  reading:  he  would 
finish  a  chapter,  the  greater  part  of  him  ready  to  scoff 
at  its  conclusions,  which  must  be  based  upon  sophistries ; 
and  then,  to  detect  the  latent  fallacies,  he  would  go  over 
it  at  once,  and  find  that  the  rereading  merely  riveted 
the  intellectual  effect  the  first  perusal  had  produced. 

And  yet  his  emotions  did  not  lag  far  behind  his  mental 
acceptance.  He  saw  again,  and  more  clearly,  that  he 
had  come  to  a  parting  of  the  paths  in  his  thinking  and 
being;  the  past  months  had  inevitably  brought  him  to 
this.  What  did  other  people  think  of  these  matters,  if 
they  knew  of  them  at  all  ?  What  would  his  father  think  ? 
Again  and  again  he  told  himself  that  Paul  must  accept 
these  obvious,  scintillating  conclusions  from  undeniable 
premises;  but  a  deeper  voice,  which  yielded  a  sterner 
satisfaction,  reminded  that  the  economic  upset — the  so- 
cialism— expounded  here  was  in  direct  opposition  to  all 
that  his  father  incarnated.  The  chasm  that  had  split 
him  from  Paul  was  no  new  thing ;  it  bedded  in  childhood 
antipathies,  in  petty,  intangible  causes,  in  dislike  at  the 
elder's  uneven  rigor  of  discipline,  in  a  deep-seated  re- 

106 


THE  JUDSONS  107 

sistance  against  being  molded  to  fit  the  father's  pat- 
tern, rather  than  according  to  his  own  leanings. 

If  his  father  would  come  with  him,  well  and  good ;  if 
not,  the  son  at  least  would  be  intellectually  honest,  and 
right ! 

There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  but  that  Mary,  the 
essence  of  motherly  understanding,  would  go  with  him  in 
these  new  ways. 

He  finished  the  rereading  with  a  sense  of  physical  ex- 
haustion, as  if  the  inner  conflicts  had  shaken  his  bodily 
balance.  With  this  was  a  false  sense  that  these  must 
have  always  been  his  thoughts — the  things  that  had 
seeded  and  sprouted  just  below  his  consciousness.  How 
could  he  have  overlooked  them  so  long?  The  obvious 
explanation,  that  they  had  not  been  there,  did  not  occur ; 
and  he  would  have  denied  it,  if  it  had  been  called 
to  his  attention. 

A  night's  tossing  wakefulness  induced  a  different 
mood.  The  spirit-tiring  reading  became  unreal  and  in- 
conclusive; he  had  strayed  off  after  a  marsh-light  danc- 
ing over  the  morbid  swamps  of  his  emotional  imagina- 
tion. Further  reading  would  purge  this  from  his  sys- 
tem. 

The  librarian  obligingly  pointed  out  the  rest  of  the 
scanty  shelf-end  of  socialist  books.  Ah,  these  would 
correct  his  wandering!  There  were  Engel's  "Origin  of 
the  Family,"  a  treatise  by  Bax  that  he  could  not  unravel, 
a  rebound  "Communist  Manifesto,"  Blatchford's  "Merrie 
England,"  the  first  volume  of  "Capital,"  in  the  Swan 
Sonnenschein  edition.  Eliminating  the  Bax  book,  he 
began  to  go  conscientiously  through  the  others;  the  task 
opened  into  a  joyful  journey.  The  persuasive  structure 
that  Wells  had  erected  found  buttresses  and  foundations. 
There  was  no  longer  room  for  carping  or  delay — he  was 
convinced;  more  than  that,  he  was  stirred  by  an  inner 


io8  MOUNTAIN 

storm,  he  heard  an  evangelical  trumpeting  such  as  must 
have  overwhelmed  Saul  in  the  blinding  reproach  along 
the  road  to  Damascus,  he  acknowledged  a  lashing  com- 
mand to  spend  himself  for  the  splendid  achievement  of 
this  immense  dream,  nay,  this  reality  that  was  even  now 
inevitably  growing  and  strengthening  throughout  the 
whole  man-sown  planet. 

He  sent  in  an  order  for  these  books,  and  many  others 
referred  to.  His  mind  was  in  a  glorified  glamor  of 
dynamic  thinking. 

Was  it  possible  that  people  could  still  be  unaware  of 
these  vast  truths?  In  college  he  had  had  two  courses  in 
classical  economy;  but  the  subjects  had  left  his  mind 
more  bewildered  than  before.  Now  a  vast  searchlight 
cut  apart  the  darkness ;  the  hazy  night  was  as  definite  as 
day. 

He  tried  to  simplify  to  himself  what  he  had  learned. 

Wealth — all  wealth — was  the  product  of  labor.  That, 
and  nothing  else. 

Rent,  interest,  profit — labor,  human  labor,  produced 
them.  It  was  not  the  land,  or  money,  or  factories ;  it  was 
the  toilers,  sweating  at  their  tasks,  who  made  all  of 
these,  and  who  received  for  their  toil  a  miserly  frag- 
ment. Land,  left  idle,  produced  nothing;  even  natural 
products  were  worthless  until  man's  fathering  work  gave 
them  value.  Money — gold  calved  no  golden  offspring, 
bills  spawned  no  further  bills  as  interest.  Factories  and 
machines  produced  nothing,  until  man's  sweat  and  blood 
were  poured  out  over  them.  Labor  was  the  producer  of 
everything;  in  justice,  all  should  belong  to  labor. 

War  itself,  modern,  "civilized"  war,  was  a  poison 
exuded  by  world-greedy  capitalism.  The  withheld  pro- 
duct of  labor  could  not  be  obtained  by  the  needy  toilers, 
nor  consumed  by  the  overfed  masters;  thus  backward 
foreign  markets  were  a  necessity,  to  get  rid  of  the  pro- 


THE  JUDSONS  109 

dtict  the  system  confiscated  and  prohibited  at  home.  Out 
of  this  grew  clashing  imperialisms,  and  wars  .  .  .  like 
this  present  one. 

find  here  was  a  vast  body  of  men — he  reread  Jack 
London's  "Revolution"  to  get  the  marvelous  figures 
again — throughout  every  country  in  the  world,  with  a 
future  planned  upon  unchangeable,  irresistible  economic 
laws,  striving  everywhere  to  bring  about  economic  jus- 
tice and  permanent  peace.  And  he  had  stayed  out  of 
it  so  long ! 

Slaves  had  gone,  and  serfs  had  gone,  but  the  wage- 
slaves,  the  slaves  of  the  machines,  these  remained.  They 
must  be  their  own  Lincoln,  and  free  themselves;  their 
own  Christ,  redeeming  their  posterity.  .  .  .  Kings  had 
gone ;  money  kings  must  go. 

He  had  called  himself  a  Democrat :  by  God,  he  would 
be  a  real  one! 

Some  intuition  sent  him  again  to  "The  Food  of  the 
Gods" ;  after  rereading  it,  the  inner  excitement  drove  him 
out  of  restricting  walls  to  the  ampler  stretches  of  the 
night.  .  .  .  This,  then,  the  flash  came,  was  the  key  to 
Wells'  cryptic  symbolism!  The  food  of  Hercules — the 
Heraklaphorbia — this  was  an  intellectual  food,  an  idea, 
that  raised  men  to  a  height  eight  times  higher  than  their 
fellows.  He  felt  his  own  head  in  the  clouds.  He  had 
tasted  of  the  food;  he  felt  a  sense  of  bodily  elation,  as 
he  pondered  in  the  starry  silence  of  the  crest,  high  above 
the  sleeping  city — a  sensation  of  physical  magnificence, 
as  if  his  body  towered  already  above  his  father's,  his 
mother's,  the  miners'. 

The  world  of  men  was  asleep,  sodden,  dead  to  the 
splendor  of  the  truth  that  shone  brilliantly  throughout 
it.  He  felt  kin  to  the  stars,  the  night, -the  vast  mountain 
that  sustained  him.  The  full  force  of  the  newspaper 
verse  that  he  had  clipped  some  days  before,  and  carried 


i  io  MOUNTAIN 

around  with  him,  held  his  mind;  he  had  grown  into  its 
mood.  The  lines  obtruded  themselves  in  fragmentary 
fashion : 

Like  calls  to  like;  the  high  stars  sing  for  me, 
The  harsh  rude  breezes   speak  to  me  alone; 

I  hear  the  voices  of  the  hill  and  sea; 
I  talk  with  them,  in  language  all  our  own. 

Over  the  fields  of  heaven  the  stars  are  sown, 
Vast   shining   ones,   who   fling   their   melody 

To  those  whose  ears  can  catch  the  brave  clear  tone. 
Like   calls  to   like;   the   high   stars   sing  for   me. 

Stirred  by  the  whirling   stars,   wild-tongued   and   free, 
The  winds  out  of  the  far-sky  realms  are  blown, 

Chanting  their  boisterous  rebel  litany; 
The   harsh   rude   breezes    speak  to   me   alone.  .  .  . 

And  then  toward  the  end, 

Flesh  of  their  flesh  am   I,  bone  of  their  bone, 

Blood-brother   to   them  all  eternally. 
All  things  are  one  with  me,  and  we  are  grown 

One  in  our  speech,  our  sadness,  our  high  glee.  .  .  . 

This  was  the  boisterous  rebel  speech,  this  the  message 
that  they  had  been  trying  so  long  to  tell  him.  This  was 
the  answer  to  his  soul-hunger  for  an  answer  to  life's  un- 
resting questionings. 

Men,  women,  children — the  iron  city,  the  world — 
staggered  blindly  on,  pulled  here  and  there  by  vast  laws 
which  they  did  not  guess.  There  was  enough  and  to 
spare  for  all;  there  was  plenty,  plenty,  only  for  the  tak- 
ing, for  all  of  the  children  of  men.  There  could  be,  if 
men  would  but  have  it,  God's  kingdom  upon  earth.  .  .  . 
He  felt  a  strange  sense  of  reverence.  Life  was  sweet 
to  him,  it  had  given  him  the  answer  to  these  things. 

The  following  Friday — it  was  the  fourth  time  he  had 
seen  Jane,  and  the  third  evening  with  her — he  tacked 
the  talk  around  to  this  theme  that  had  so  grown  upon 
him  in  these  brief  iconoclastic  days.  The  drowsy  throb 


THE  JUDSONS  III 

of  his  motor  left  the  mountain  far  behind ;  shot  over  the 
creaking  wooden  bridge  that  unbarred  Shadow  Creek, 
traversed  the  graveyard  glimmer  of  the  moon-mottled 
sandstone  above  Shadow  Mountain,  and  now  purred  and 
loitered  through  a  further  farm-broken  valley,  nosing 
toward  the  East,  where  the  stars  rose. 

"You  know,  Jane,  I  finished  that  Wells  book  .  .  .  the 
one  I  saw  first  on  your  table." 

"You  liked  it?"  He  could  feel  a  smile  in  the  quiet 
query. 

A  playful  accusation  answered  her.  "You  didn't  tell 
me  to  read  it !" 

"I  knew  you  would  find  it  for  yourself." 

He  thought  this  over.  "That  was  better.  Tell  me, 
Jane:  are  you  a  socialist?" 

"Mm  .  .  .  yes,  of  course;  all  sensible  people  are." 

"A  member  of  the  party?" 

"I've  never  joined,  though  I've  heard  Kate  O'Hare, 
and  some  of  the  local  'comrades'  speak.  And  I  went  to 
the  Debs  meeting  last  fall." 

So  she  was  a  socialist — one  of  the  despised,  reviled 
believers  in  the  newer,  finer  creed!  He  had  guessed  it 
all  along;  the  certainty  as  to  it  had  played  some  part  in 
the  pleasure  at  his  own  mental  choice.  Out  of  a  joyed 
heart  he  announced,  "I'm  going  to  join — at  once !  I  met 
a  member  of  the  Adams ville  local — a  Mr.  Duck- 
worth  " 

"I've  met  him, — an  architect,  isn't  he?  A  dear  old 
type!" 

"That's  the  one.    He  has  my  application  card." 

"My  dear  boy!  You're  much  too  precipitate.  You 
ought  to  read — and  think — a  lot  first." 

When  she  heard  his  achievements,  she  had  to  confess 
that  what  he  had  read  already  exceeded  her  desultory 
knowledge. 


ii2  MOUNTAIN 

"But  what  will  your  father  think  of  you!" 

Pelham  meditated,  and  spoke  out  of  a  divided  mind. 
"He  thinks  pretty  straight.  And  he  likes  Wells.  I'm 
going  to  talk  it  over  with  him." 

"Here's  to  a  pleasant  session !  I  envy  you  your  cour- 
age, Pelham.  What  Auntie  didn't  say  to  me!  Even 
Mrs.  Anderson  shrugs  at  my  opinions.  She's  thoroughly 
bourgeois — charity,  labor  laws,  factory  reforms  are  as 
far  as  she  dares  contemplate."  A  little  smile  curved  her 
cheek  bewitchingly,  as  the  brilliance  of  her  large  eyes 
caressed  him  approvingly.  "Anything's  bourgeois  that 
we  socialists  don't  like,  you  know." 

She  went  on,  after  an  intimate  moment  of  pondering. 
"Let  me  tell  you  what  we  are  trying  to  do,  first.  Mrs. 
Anderson's  committee  wants  the  state  to  pass  a  decent 
mining  law.  We're  behind  the  rest  of  the  country  now 
in  safeguards  for  miners;  and  our  limping  laws  aren't 
observed.  The  Board  of  Trade  has  endorsed  the  new 
law,  but  the  state  labor  federation  has  played  off.  Meet 
those  men.  .  .  .  Most  of  the  union  bosses  are  crooks, 
you  know." 

"I  know  the  other  side  says  that "  His  tone  was 

incredulous. 

"There  are  crooks  in  both  camps,  Pelham.  Just  watch 
John  Pooley  and  his  gang!  And,  while  you  talk  to 
the  redoubtable  Paul  J.,  see  what  he  thinks  about  our 
mining  bill." 

"It's  such  a  little  thing,  Jane,  with  socialism  to  fight 
for!" 

She  nodded  her  head,  with  a  charming  echoey  dogma- 
tism. "Big  movements  go  forward  by  little  things.  .  .  . 
What's  the  time?" 

The  radium  face  of  his  watch  made  his  own  expres- 
sion fall.  "I'm  afraid  we  must  turn  back,  dear  lady.  .  .  . 
I'll  sound  my  father,  and  let  you  know." 


THE  JUDSONS  113 

His  mother,  the  next  morning,  casually  began  to  cross- 
examine  him  concerning  his  sudden  friendship  for  the 
girl.  He  had  not  seen  Dorothy,  he  reflected  with  a  start, 
for  two  weeks  now ;  Jane  had  told  him  that  the  Meades 
were  leaving  for  the  summer,  perhaps  to  be  gone  the 
next  year  as  well.  He  hardly  minded.  Dorothy  was  a 
closed  alley;  she  did  not  think, — and  even  if  he  had 
loved  her,  he  could  not  have  married  her.  But  this 
girl  .  .  . 

"Jane's  splendid,  mother.    I  like  her  immensely." 

"Mother  knows  her,  Pelham.  She  is  undeniably 
clever.  She  spoke  at  the  State  Federation  of  Women's 
Clubs  in  favor  of  our  joining  the  National.  Clever,  but 
very  .  .  .  young.  There  are  negro  clubs  in  the  National, 
you  know.  Don't  you  remember,  dear,  I  told  you  how  T 
defeated  the  resolution?" 

"I  don't  remember  your  mentioning  her." 

"She  made  the  speech  just  after  mine.  She  said,  'I 
am  sure  that  Mrs.  Judson,  if  she  met  her  negro  mammy 
in  heaven,  would  be  glad  to  see  her.'  And  I  answered, 
'Yes ;  when  I  meet  her,  I  expect  to  say,  "Mammy  Sarah, 
how  are  you  ?  And  how  are  all  your  folks  ?"  I  wouldn't 
say,  "Well,  Mrs.  Sarah  Barbour,  what  is  your  opinion  of 
the  present  state  of  the  drama,  and  the  influence  of  Kant 
and  Schelling  upon  American  philosophy  ?" '  It  floored 
her.  The  resolution  was  defeated." 

"I  don't  see  anything  so  awful  in  it." 

"But — negro  clubs,  Pelham!" 

He  waived  the  point.     "She  is  clever." 

Mary  pursed  her  lips.  "Her  ideas  seem  .  .  .  radical. 
That's  bad  enough,  in  a  man;  in  a  woman,  it's  inex- 
cusable. It  gets  her  talked  about." 

"People  talk  about  Jane  Addams,  and  Sara  Bern- 
hardt." 

"There  is  a  difference.     I  hope  mother's  boy  won't 


114  MOUNTAIN 

see  too  much  of  such  a  woman.  .  .  .  You  haven't  men- 
tioned Nellie  Tolliver  in  some  time." 

"Nellie's  head  doesn't  hold  anything  except  bridge 
and  the  club." 

"Mrs.  Tolliver  is  a  member  of  the  Highland  Study 
Circle,  with  me,  Pelham.  Nellie  is  a  dear,  sweet  girl. 
Any  woman  would  be  proud  to  have  her  for  a  daughter." 

Pelham  yawned  brutally.  "Hollis  is  coming  along, 
mother.  .  .  .  I'm  not  bothering  about  marriage  yet." 

Conquering  a  bothersome  timidity,  he  sounded  his 
father  upon  the  proposed  law,  and  his  recent  reading. 
Paul  saw  through  the  timid  questionings  at  once,  and 
answered  cautiously.  "It  won't  do  you  any  harm  to 
read  that  stuff.  We  all  pass  through  it.  Twenty-five 
years  ago,  your  mother  and  I  read  Bellamy's  'Looking 
Backward,'  and  liked  it.  Of  course  such  things  can't 
be  taken  too  seriously." 

At  the  mention  of  the  mining  law,  the  father  snorted. 
"So  that's  what  that  Lauderdale  girl  has  been  up  to! 
You'll  find,  Pelham,  that  Mrs.  Anderson  is  something  of  a 
busybody.  As  that  law  is  framed  now,  it  would  bankrupt 
every  mine  operator  in  the  State  within  a  year." 

"But  the  principle  of  the  thing — 

"The  principle  is  admirable.  But  don't  you  bother 
about  such  generalities.  You'd  better  get  your  mind 
down  to  the  problems  of  the  mountain ;  there's  enough  to 
be  done  here  to  keep  your  ingenuity  exercised." 

Jane's  chummy  note  answered  his  scrawled  report  of 
the  conversation.  "And  you  might  tell  him  that  T.  L.  G. 
— 'That  Lauderdale  Girl' — gives  him  her  regards.  He 
likes  the  principle,  does  he  ?  I  think  we've  got  Governor 
Tennant  on  our  side,  although  he's  pretty  close  to  your 
father's  crowd.  Once  the  law  is  passed,  we'll  make  all 
the  mine  operators  sit  up  straight!  Until  Friday  night, 
then.  ,  .  ." 


XI 


WHILE  Paul  was  dictating,  in  sharp,  short  sentences, 
the  answers  to  the  batch  of  mail  marked  "Mining," 
two  cards  were  brought  in  to  him. 

"JOHN   POOLEY, 
President  State  Federation  of  Labor." 

"R.  E.  L.  BIVENS, 
Editor,  The  Adamsville  Voice  of  Labor." 

His  eyes  crinkled  into  a  smile,  although  the  mouth 
remained  a  hard  fixed  line.  Pelham  must  see  this  pair 
of  blood-suckers  at  work;  that  would  open  the  boy's 
eyes  to  the  dry  rot  in  the  practical  working  out  of  his 
labor  theorizing. 

No,  he  would  see  them  alone.  Perhaps  he  could  get 
at  the  son  indirectly. 

"Send  Mr.  Kane  in." 

The  company's  advertising  manager  opened  the  pri- 
vate door  as  the  two  labor  leaders  were  adjusting  them- 
selves complacently  into  ample  chairs. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Pooley?" 

"We  called  to  see  about  the  convention  special  of  the 
Voice,  sir.  Wouldn't  you  like  a  half-page  write-up  for 
the  company,  or  yourself?  The  half  is  only  seventy- 
five  dollars.  .  .  .  It'll  go  where  it'll  do  lots  of  good, 
sir." 

Paul  directed  his  gaze  to  the  wheezing,  balloon-like 


ii6  MOUNTAIN 

figure  of  the  editor.  "Has  Kane  given  you  enough  ad- 
vertising, Bivens?" 

The  puffed,  greedy  face  smiled  ingratiatingly.  "Mr. 
Kane's  been  very  good  to  us,  sir.  At  least  a  quarter  of 
a  page  weekly." 

"How  has  the  Voice  of  Labor  made  out  ?" 

"It's  made  out — that's  about  all,  Mr.  Judson.  Print 
paper's  gone  so  high,  that  only  the  advertisements  has 
made  it  go.  We  expect  this  special  will  net  a  neat  sum." 

He  jingled  the  Woodmen's  emblem  at  the  end  of  a 
thick  gold  chain,  thoroughly  satisfied  with  the  world. 
There  was  an  Odd  Fellows'  button  on  his  coat — fraternal 
orders  strengthened  his  appeals  for  the  paper. 

"Pooley,  how  do  you  stand  on  this  mining  law  down 
at  Jackson?" 

The  lanky  president  of  the  State  Federation  twisted 
his  lame  leg  more  comfortably  under  him,  and  leaned 
forward,  gesticulating  diplomatically.  "It's  both  good 
and  bad,  Mr.  Judson.  Some  of  the  boys  is  very  strong 
for  it.  But  I  seen  an  editorial  against  it  in  the  Times- 
Dispatch  last  week.  I  figured  you  might  not  be  for  it." 

Paul  cut  through  the  verbal  knot.  "How  will  the  Fed- 
eration go?" 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "No  telling.  There's  a 
few  of  them  Socialists  is  delegates — they're  for  anything 
to  stir  up  trouble;  but  nobody  pays  much  attention  to 
them.  Then  there  is  others.  It'll  be  pretty  even." 

"How  would  you  feel  if  I  took  the  front  and  back 
pages,  Bivens?" 

"That  would  be  fine  for  both  of  us,  sir." 

"Coming  out  editorially  against  that  law  ?" 

He  wheezed  deferentially.  "It  has  some  bad  flaws,  sir. 
I  figured  on  a  write-up  against  it." 

"Make  it  strong,  and  I'll  take  the  two  pages." 

Bivens    consulted    with    the    other    representative  of 


THE  JUDSONS  117 

labor.  His  eager  eyes  shone  greedily.  "How  would  you 
like  us  to  put  you  down,  Mr.  Judson,  for  the  main  speech 
of  the  convention  ?  'Proper  Legal  Safeguards  in  Mining,' 
or  something  like  that?  .  .  .  You  know,  the  front 
and  back  pages  is  more  expensive.  Say  five  hundred  for 
the  two." 

Paul  watched  their  well-fed,  ever-hungry  faces  with 
mental  nausea.  "All  right." 

''You'll  make  the  speech?" 

He  nodded.     "Don't  forget  the  editorial." 

As  they  rose,  he  lifted  his  check  book  with  studied  obvi- 
ousness. "If  those  Socialists  make  trouble,  find  out  what 
they  want.  If  another  advertisement  will  handle 
them "  He  did  not  end  the  sentence. 

He  stared  after  their  retreating  figures.  The  spokes- 
men of  labor !  A  herd  of  dumb,  worthless  brutes,  Iqd  by 
pig-eyed  greed !  Promising  material  to  have  any  say  as 
to  the  destinies  of  a  country!  .  .  .  Well,  Pelham  would 
learn. 

Paul  had  a  busy  month  of  it.  The  mining  was  begin- 
ning to  pay  at  last.  Two  hundred  more  convicts,  more 
than  a  hundred  negro  workers,  had  been  added  to  the 
force  in  the  third  ramp ;  its  output  had  begun  to  exceed 
the  other  two. 

After  he  had  purchased  the  ore  lands  lying  on  both 
sides  of  the  former  holding,  he  called  Sam  Ross,  Dudley 
Randolph,  and  the  Birrell-Florence  representatives  into 
conference.  Randolph  was  the  only  one  who  held  out, 
when  a  pool  was  proposed  to  cover  prices  and  wages. 

"I  don't  have  trouble  with  my  men,  Judson;  I  don't 
want  any.  I'm  with  you  in  theory,  but  I  can't  see  any 
advantage  to  me  in  that  proposition." 

Paul  then  opened  his  alternate  plan.  The  working  out 
of  the  details  took  two  weeks,  but  the  result  was  the  in- 
corporation of  the  Birrell-Florence-Mountain  Mining 


ii8  MOUNTAIN 

Company.  Paul  Judson's  salary  as  managing  vice-presi- 
dent was  fifty  thousand,  in  addition  to  what  the  dividends 
would  bring. 

He  figured  up  the  value  of  his  stock.  Unless  it  depreci- 
ated, he  could  get  out — now — with  five  million  dollars! 
And  this  was  only  the  mining  rights.  He  could  afford  to 
let  Pelham  play  with  a  few  fool  notions,  when  things 
broke  this  way ! 

On  his  next  conference  with  the  son  over  progress  at 
the  works,  well-planned  hints  gave  Pelham  the  opening  to 
learn  of  the  invitation  from  John  Pooley,  and  the  father's 
acceptance.  "Of  course,  my  opinions  don't  go  as  far  as 
yours " 

"I  didn't  expect  that.  But  this  is  great  news !  You'll 
come  out  for  the  new  bill,  after  all  ?" 

"With  necessary  practical  modifications.  I'm  studying 
it  out  now." 

Pelham  repeated  enthusiastically,  "It's  splendid  news !" 

At  his  first  opportunity  he  phoned  down  to  Jane  an 
insistent  plea  for  that  afternoon.  "You'll  have  to  see  me, 
lady  dear;  I've  something  important  to  tell  you." 

Was  there  ever  a  girl  to  whom  these  words,  from  even 
a  passable  lover,  or,  for  that  matter,  a  possible  one,  did 
not  bring  the  fluttering  fantasy  of  what  woman  has  been 
so  long  taught  to  consider  the  one  important  something 
that  she  is  to  hear  ?  This  thought  came  first  to  Jane ;  then, 
smiling  at  her  overstayed  fraction  of  thinking,  she  prom- 
ised the  afternoon. 

She  was  on  the  porch  when  his  wheels  slid  to  a  stand- 
still at  the  curb  ;  he  was  beside  her  before  she  was  well  out 
of  her  chair.  "The  most  amazing  thing,  Jane !"  as  urgent 
fingers  levitated  her  into  the  seat  beside  him.  "Dad's 
coming  our  way !" 

Something  of  his  flaring  enthusiasm  heightened  her  re- 
ply. "You  can't  be  serious!  I'd  as  soon  expect  Auntie 


THE  JUDSONS  119 

to  be  a  convert !"  Her  mothering1  eyes  searched  his  face 
anxiously.  "You  aren't  teasing  me?" 

"Indeed  not !  He's  to  speak  at  the  state  labor  conven- 
tion himself,  in  favor  of  proper  mining  regulations.  It's 
great,  Jane !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  him !" 

Her  mobile  lips  curved  doubtfully.  "For  your  sake,  I 
hope  you're  right,  Pelham.  But — how  can  he?  Why, 
boy,  he's  on  the  other  side — he  must  be !  How  could  he 
line  up  with  our  ideas,  when  it  would  take  money  out  of 
his  own  pocket?  Miracles  don't  happen,  I'm  afraid.  I 

wish '  She  sighed.  There  was  something  to  admire, 

almost  love,  in  his  hearty  zeal  over  the  amazing  convert ; 
he  was  so  boyish,  so  peltingly  trustful ! 

"I'm  for  it,  remember.  And  I'm  his  son."  Her  un- 
sympathetic unbelief  widened  his  gaze. 

Her  fingers  brushed  his  arm  in  a  fleet  unspoken  caress. 
"You're  a  good  boy,  Pelham.  I  haven't  gotten  over  my 
wonder  at  you.  But — you're  pulling  against  him,  in  all 
of  this,  remember." 

"He's  decent."  Real  pain  spoke  here;  his  own  doubts 
of  the  father  gave  an  obstinate  tinge  to  his  reception  of 
her  objections. 

A  cynical  sureness  hardened  the  eyes  for  a  moment. 
"Nobody's  decent,  when  his  pocket-book's  affected."  A 
merry  laugh  parted  her  lips.  "How  unfeeling  you  must 
find  me !  Let's  pray  I'm  entirely  wrong.  Why  not  get  a 
look  at  his  speech,  before  he  delivers  it?"  Incredulous, 
hope-against-hope  eagerness  flickered  in  her  face. 

This  Pelham  at  once  agreed  to  do.  There  was  some 
ground  for  Jane's  hesitancy,  he  reflected ;  most  men,  given 
Paul's  position,  would  have  been  permanently  intractable. 
But  his  father,  after  all,  was  different. 

He  could  hardly  let  her  go  back  for  supper,  although 
she  had  promised.  A  dizzying  intemperance  drove  on  his 
tongue.  "I  wish  I  could  keep  you,  now  that  I  have  you 


120  MOUNTAIN 

here,"  and  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  alluring  shapeliness ; 
her  gaze  was  intently  busied  with  the  panorama  of  unin- 
spired villas.  "You  don't  know  what  knowing  you  has 
meant  to  me,  Jane.  I  was  in  the  dumps  over  the  whole 
business.  .  .  ." 

"It's  mutual,  Pelham.  The  iron  city  has  chiefly  solid 
iron  headpieces,  I  think.  You  were  a  rare  find." 

He  chuckled.  "You  make  the  thing  too  intellectual,  at 
that.  I  assure  you  that  I  wouldn't  offer  to  elope  with  a 
suffrage  tract,  or  a  skirted  treatise  on  socialism.  My  offer 
holds  good,  if  you're  willing."  Playfully  he  increased  the 
speed. 

"Lauderdale  isn't  Barkis,"  she  temporized.  "Have  you 
known  me  four  weeks,  or  five  ?" 

"So  romance  perishes,  as  the  lady  grows  arithmetical ! 
Love  can't  be  weighed  on  the  iceman's  scales." 

"Nor  can  mental  dynamite  blast  it  out,  Mr.  Miner. 
Modern  marriage  isn't  a  thing  to  venture  lightly.  Love's 
blindness  was  once  thought  a  blessing " 

"It's  often  a  mercy,"  he  slipped  in. 

"To-day's  surgery  is  curing  the  blindness.  It's  all  right 
to  mate  as  birds  do,  if  people  could  part  as  easily.  But 
when  a  heart  must  be  pledged,  not  only  to  honeymoon 
days,  but  to  the  petty  irks,  and  the  tedious  astronomical 
study  of  the  skyhigh  cost  of  living It  needs  reflec- 
tion." 

"You  might  give  me  a  crouton  of  comfort.  The  espe- 
cial heart  I  sit  beside  isn't  pledged  elsewhere,  I  hope?" 

"Now,  really " 

"That's  not  asking  too  much." 

"It  is,"  the  lips  pursed  grimly.  "It's  pledged,  alas,  to 
the  Uplift  of  the  Underdog,  the  Castigation  of  the  Capi- 
talist Canine,  the  Manufacture  of  the  Millennium,  the 
Fashioning  of  the  Future's  Fascinating  Feminism " 


THE  JUDSONS  121 

"Enough,  enough!  But  to  no  single  heart,"  in  plead- 
ing insistence. 

"Nor  to  no  married  one  neither,"  she  laughed. 

"Content,  i'  faith!  Now  you  may  go  home  to  single 
blessedness  and  that  supper  you  thoughtlessly  promised 
to  grace."  But  Pelham  wondered,  more  than  once, 
whether  the  girl's  last  light  retort  had  hidden  a  dig  at  his 
friendship  with  Dorothy.  Well,  Jane  had  said  less  than 
he  deserved,  at  that. 

The  convention  came  closer  and  closer;  and  still  Paul 
had  not  had  time  to  prepare  the  speech,  when  the  son 
made  his  requests.  The  work  at  the  third  ramp,  and  the 
planning  of  an  opening  on  the  newly  purchased  crests  be- 
yond, kept  Pelham's  hands  exceptionally  busy,  so  that  he 
did  not  find  much  time  to  wonder  at  his  failure  to  see  the 
expected  address. 

Three  days  before  the  convention,  Jane  met  him  with 
a  worried  face.  "Something's  rotten  in  the  environs  of 
the  iron  Copenhagen,  Pelham.  I  learned  about  it  from 
comrade  Hernandez.  One  of  the  few  socialist  delegates, 
a  Birrell-Florence  miner  named  Jensen — I  don't  think 
you've  met  him — has  been  offered  a  direct  bribe  to  oppose 
the  mining  bill.  Somebody's  busy,  that's  sure." 

"That  does  sound  discouraging.  Let's  go  over  your 
mining  reports,  so  that  I  can  get  the  facts  straight.  I 
ought  to  understand  the  situation,  at  least." 

They  went  over  the  figures  together.  -  He  began  to  vis- 
ualize what  the  class  struggle  meant,  here  in  the  quiet, 
placid  South.  There  had  been  four  large  mine  explosions 
in  the  state  the  year  before,  the  one  at  Flagg  Mines  kill- 
ing a  hundred  and  ninety-two "And  all  of  it  useless, 

Pelham !  The  simplest  mine  safeguards " 

"The  owners  can't  know  of  them !" 

She  shut  her  lips.  "They  cost  something.  Every  cent 
cuts  down  profits.  It's  cheaper  to  kill  men." 


122  MOUNTAIN 

"It's  horrible!"  In  dejected  impotence  he  clenched  his 
hands.  The  unemotional  rows  of  figures  began  to  acquire 
a  breathing  significance.  His  vivid  imagination  pictured 
mangled  forms,  the  bursting  hell  of  explosions,  the  iso- 
lated horror  of  lonely  accident  and  death,  the  pallid  faces 
of  starving  mothers  and  babies,  staining  the  broad  mar- 
gins of  the  cheap  white  paper. 

She  looked  up  from  the  pamphlets,  her  brows  creased. 
Pelham  smothered  an  impulse  to  kiss  away  the  slight 
gravure  of  worry.  "The  West,  bad  as  it  is  in  some  things, 
at  least  has  modern  laws  and  safeguards."  An  unmeant 
accusation  drove  in  her  tones.  "The  creaky  old  laws  here 
are  not  even  followed!  When  was  the  last  inspection 
of  your  mines  ?" 

"More  than  a  month  ago.  The  inspector  wasn't  very 
thorough,  I  noticed.  They  were  pronounced  safe." 

"It  ought  to  be  done  weekly,  at  least,  beside  a  daily  in- 
spection by  your  forces.  Gas  can  collect  in  the  coal 
mines,  flaws  and  cracks  in  the  roofing  anywhere — only 
close  inspection  will  do.  .  .  .  And,  then,  think  of  the 
wages  paid  here !  Can  a  man  live — decently,  I  mean,  so 
that  he  can  send  his  children  to  school,  and  all,  on  what 
you  pay?  And  Judge  Florence  gets  seventy-five  thou- 
sand salary — outside  of  his  dividends." 

"My  father  gets  fifty." 

"It's  compulsory  starvation  and  death  for  the  ones  who 
really  produce  the  wealth.  .  .  .  We'll  see  what  the 
convention  does." 

Pelham  missed  the  opening  sessions ;  but  Jane  gave  him 
reports  of  the  meetings  she  witnessed,  supplemented  by 
what  Hernandez  and  Jensen  told  him.  It  was  a  heated 
gathering.  Big  John  Pooley  was  accused  outright  of  dis- 
honest accounting,  by  one  violent  structural  iron  worker. 
The  oily  eloquence  of  Robert  E.  Lee  Bivens  smoothed  this 
over.  Each  of  the  administration  officials — "the  boodle 


THE  JUDSONS  123 

gang,"  as  the  noisy  radical  minority  called  them — was 
flayed ;  the  editor  of  the  Voice  of  Labor  received  an  espe- 
cial lashing  from  Jensen,  who  charged  him  with  deliber- 
ately selling  out  labor's  paper  to  the  corporations. 

The  machinery  rolled  smoothly.  All  protests  were 
tombed  in  safely  packed  committees. 

At  last  came  the  final  night,  with  Paul's  speech,  and 
consideration  of  the  mining  bill  afterward,  as  the  only 
unfinished  business. 

Pooley,  using  his  gavel  vigorously,  secured  general 
quiet.  He  spoke  of  the  honor  paid  by  having  as  their  dis- 
tinguished visitor  the  wide-awake  vice-president  of  the 
Birrell-Florence-Mountain  Mining  Company.  "Every  act 
in  his  life  marks  Paul  Judson  as  a  friend  of  labor.  Many 
of  you  do  not  know  that  he  holds  a  union  card — the 
printers  elected  him  to  honorary  membership  more  than  a 
year  ago.  He  is  one  of  us.  His  problems  are  our  prob- 
lems. He  is  turning  the  splendid  force  of  his  intellect  to 
a  solution  of  the  labor  question  which  will  help  employer 
and  employee  alike.  A  gentleman  of  sterling  integrity,  a 
leader  among  leaders "  The  fulsome  eulogy  con- 
tinued for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Jane,  who  sat  beside  Pelham,  sniffed  audibly  at  most  of 
the  speech.  He  had  asked  his  mother  to  go  with  them; 
but  she  had  been  too  busy  planning  a  dance  at  the  country 
club,  which  Paul  was  giving  for  Sue,  to  take  the  evening 
off.  He  would  have  Jane  to  look  after,  his  mother  re- 
minded him. 

The  boy  was  irritated  at  his  companion's  attitude.  The 
glamor  of  the  situation,  with  his  father  as  the  recognized 
champion  of  labor,  fitted  smoothly  into  his  own  rebellious 
dreams.  With  this  support,  he  could  achieve  his  rosiest 
plannings. 

Paul  rose  to  speak,  alert,  dignified,  commanding. 

He  paid  tribute  to  the  audience,  and  to  the  hosts  of 


124  MOUNTAIN 

labor  they  represented.  They  were  particularly  fortunate, 
he  said,  in  their  leadership ;  under  the  sane,  conservative 
guidance  of  such  men  they  were  sure  to  reflect  credit  on 
the  city,  the  state,  the  entire  South. 

"I  believe  in  you.  I  believe  in  the  work  you  are  doing. 
You  are  the  brawn  and  the  backbone  of  our  free  white 
Anglo-Saxon  democracy,  the  flower  of  the  world's  peo- 
ples. And  the  backbone" — he  smiled  embracingly — "is  as 
necessary  as  the  head;  the  brawn  is  as  essential  as  the 
brain. 

"There  are  some — socialists,  anarchists,  or  whatever 
you  choose  to  call  them — who  are  working  for  a  body 
without  a  head,  brawn  without  a  brain.  You  can  find 
such  bodies  in  the  morgue.  The  decapitated  socialist  state 
is  a  corpse." 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause  at  this.  Pelham  went 
chill  all  over,  as  he  realized  how  unpopular  socialism 
would  be  made  to  appear.  And — his  father  speaking ! 

"We  have  passed,  as  a  people,  out  of  the  black  gloom, 
our  heritage  from  a  red  war  of  brother  against  brother, 
into  the  golden  sunshine  of  a  new  day,  a  day  of  prosperity 
and  plenty,  an  hour  of  progress  and  enlightenment. 
While  the  rest  of  the  world  is  torn  with  war,  peace  is 
upon  us ;  our  products,  sold  to  the  warring  world,  assure 
an  unprecedented  prosperity  to  us.  Beware  lest  the  evil 
counselor,  the  plausible  deceiver,  the  wily  plotter  creep  in, 
and  our  ears  lend  attention  to  his  seductive  tones!  This 
is  no  time  for  the  disorganizer.  We,  as  well  as  you,  are 
fighting  for  the  best  things  of  life — peace,  freedom,  and 
the  welfare  of  every  one,  capitalist  and  laborer  alike,  and 
a  whole-souled,  complete  understanding  and  brotherhood 
between  all  of  us !" 

The  applause  was  noisily  demonstrative.  One  delegate, 
who  had  attended  too  many  sub-conventions  in  various 
bars,  started  down  the  aisle  to  shake  the  hand  of  "brother 


THE  JUDSONS  125 

Judson."  The  vigorous  pilotage  of  two  ushers  steered 
him  into  the  safer  harbor  of  the  street. 

After  the  interruption,  Paul  turned  to  his  topic.  "I 
favor  state  mining  regulation — and  the  stricter  the  better, 
always  conserving  the  full  liberty  of  the  individual  to 
make  his  free  contract.  That  present  joke  at  Jackson — 
that  so-called  mining  law,  which  would  bankrupt  every 
mine  owner,  and  drive  into  unemployment  and  starvation 
every  mine  employee  in  the  state — I  know  that  none  of 
you  can  be  so  blind  to  your  own  interest  as  to  favor  it. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  go  on  record  as  favoring  a  sane, 
reasonable  law — one  protecting  your  employer's  profit,  so 
that  your  wages  will  be  safe." 

He  branched  into  a  technical  discussion  of  the  flaws 
of  the  law,  emphasizing  what  labor  would  lose  in  every 
case  if  the  proposed  changes  were  made.  There  were 
growls  of  dissent  from  some  quarters — even  Pelham,  sick 
at  heart,  hissed  one  of  his  statements ;  but  the  applause 
overwhelmed  the  disagreement.  Benignant  John  Pooley, 
seated  at  the  speaker's  right,  led  the  handclapping  at  every 
pause. 

"It's  up  to  you,"  Paul's  tones  sharpened,  grew  crisper. 
"You  have  it  in  your  power  to  go  on  record  against  it,  or 
for  it.  If  against  it,  you  assure  a  continuation  of  the 
present  helpful  and  hopeful  laws — not  perfect,  by  any 
means,  but  laws  which  will  be  constantly  bettered  by  an 
intelligent  legislature,  representative  of  the  whole  people. 
Or  you  can  favor  it — and  thereby  favor,  instead  of  pros- 
perity and  progress,  bankruptcy  for  the  owners,  spiritual 
bankruptcy  for  its  supporters,  and,  worse  than  all,  a  wide- 
spread business  depression,  which  will  force  capital  else- 
where, slow  down  and  stop  the  wheels  of  industry,  drive 
the  storekeepers  out  of  business,  and  drag  your  own  wives 
and  families  into  want,  poverty,  ultimate  degradation  and 
death. 


126  MOUNTAIN 

"The  smoke  from  those  mining  settlements  and  furnace 
stacks  upon  the  mountain  above  our  iron  city  is  the 
symbol  of  life — life  for  all  of  us.  It  is  the  pillar  of  smoke 
by  day,  the  cloud  of  fire  by  night.  This  bill" — and  he 
pointed  an  imperative  finger  first  at  the  chairman,  and 
then  over  the  audience — "this  bill  will  clear  the  sky  of 
that  smoke,  and  leave  those  mines  and  furnaces  to  rot 
and  rust  into  scrap-iron.  Take  your  choice.  I  believe  that 
you  cannot  fail  to  take  the  wise,  the  sane,  the  brotherly, 
the  prosperous  way,  for  all  of  us,  for  Adamsville  and  the 
nation." 

Before  he  could  settle  into  his  chair,  and  while  the 
applause  thundered  at  its  fullest,  Jensen  was  on  his  feet, 
shouting  a  demand  that  the  chair  recognize  him.  Pooley 
blandly  motioned  him  again  and  again  into  his  seat.  The 
applause  persisted. 

"A  question,  Mr.  Chairman!  A  question,  Mr.  Chair- 
man!" 

The  president  could  ignore  him  no  longer.  "Delegate 
Jensen." 

"Will  the  speaker  answer  a  question  ?" 

Paul,  suave  and  collected,  smilingly  consented. 

"Isn't  it  a  fact  that" — Jensen's  voice  choked  in  his 
throat,  in  his  mad  eagerness  to  make  his  point — "that  the 
mine  safeguards  here  are  behind  every  state  in  the  union  ? 
That  the  men  are  paid  less,  and  suffer  more  accidents? 
How  can  there  be  harmony  between  capital  and  labor? 
Don't  we  both  want  the  same  thing?"  His  words  crowded 
over  each  other;  his  growing  incoherence  was  unintelli- 
gible to  most  of  the  audience.  He  waved  a  pamphlet  at 
the  speaker.  "I  have  in  my  hand  the  latest  federal  mining 
report " 

"Aw,  hire  a  hall,  Swedey !"  an  ugly-faced  satellite  of 
Pooley's  cut  in. 

The  audience  laughed,  releasing  tense  feelings. 


THE  JUDSONS  127 

"I  will  do  my  best  to  answer  the  questions,"  Paul  began. 
He  picked  up  a  paper  from  the  desk  before  him.  "I  have 
here  the  report  referred  to.  It  is  a  fact  that  the  monetary 
wage  here  is  slightly  lower  than  in  most  states.  But  the 
purchasing  price  of  money  is  almost  twice  that  in  some 
Western  states." 

There  was  some  applause  at  this. 

Paul  went  on.  "As  to  safeguards,  that  bill  takes  away 
your  chief  safeguard — your  job." 

He  sat  down.  The  jubilant  audience  calloused  their 
hands  noisily. 

The  district  delegate  of  the  miners,  Jack  Bowden,  rose 
gracefully.  "Isn't  it  also  a  fact,  Mr.  Judson,  that  the 
Birrell-Florence  mines  have  recently  installed  safety  de- 
vices not  required  by  the  law  ?" 

Paul  did  not  know  it,  but  he  bowed  agreeably.  "So  I 
have  understood." 

Pelham  writhed.  Even  after  his  father's  manifestly  un- 
fair speech,  he  had  expected  intellectual  honesty  from 
him.  He  had  dodged  both  parts  of  Jensen's  question.  Sur- 
face brilliancy — but  the  questions  were  still  unanswered. 
The  intense  disappointment  in  his  father  wracked  him 
with  physical  pain. 

As  she  felt  Pelham's  body  commence  to  rise,  Jane's 
hand  clenched  his  arm.  "Don't  do  it ;  it  will  only  make  a 
scene.  Let's  leave." 

Ignoring  the  pleading  grasp,  he  rose  unsteadily. 
Against  the  walls  of  his  chest  his  heart  pounded  irregu- 
larly ;  he  feared  for  a  flashed  instant  that  it  would  burst 
its  way  out,  and  he  would  fall  dead.  Gripping  the  seat 
ahead  more  tightly,  he  found  his  voice.  "Mr. 
Speaker " 

Paul  looked  at  him,  for  the  moment  surprised  and  dis- 
pleased. The  cautious  smile  reappeared  faintly. 

"About  this  question  of  wages.    Isn't  it  a  fact  that,  the 


128  MOUNTAIN 

smaller  the  dividends,  the  larger  the  wages?  Both  come 
from  the  same  fund,  the  wealth  produced;  doesn't  the 
prosperity  of  one  cut  against  the  prosperity  of  the  other  ? 
So  that,  for  labor  to  get  its  full  product,  profit  must  be 
abolished,  and  cooperation  introduced?" 

There  was  a  gasp  of  surprise  from  the  few  in  the  audi- 
ence who  recognized  the  pale  figure  as  the  speaker's  son, 
A  scattering  rattle  of  applause  shook  parts  of  the  crowd. 

Paul  moistened  his  lips,  and  explained :  "The  questioner 
asks,  will  not  labor's  prosperity  come  when  profit  has 
been  abolished,  and  cooperation  substituted.  There  is 
something  to  be  said  for  that  as  an  air-spun  theory.  It 
has  never  worked  in  practice.  We — all  of  us — must  feed 
on  our  daily  bread,  not  on  economic  theories,"  he  finished 
with  crisp  decisiveness. 

There  was  a  generous  hand  at  this. 

Pelham's  quiet  words  to  Jane  whistled  between 
clenched  teeth.  "All  untrue,  all  unfair.  A  thing  cannot 
be  good  in  theory  and  bad  in  practice.  Something  is 
wrong  with  a  theory,  if  it  does  not  take  into  account  all 
facts,  all  reality.  He  can't  even  think  honestly !" 

She  squeezed  his  hand  in  the  darkness. 

In  dazed  agony  he  sat — his  father  had  left  unperceived 
by  the  stage  exit — while  the  delegates,  their  discussion 
carefully  guided  by  the  administration  machine,  voted, 
three  to  one,  against  the  mining  law  on  which  he  and 
Jane  had  built  such  hopeful  fancies. 

The  summer  stars  hung  muddily  above  the  western 
horizon  when  he  ran  his  car  into  the  garage,  and  slipped 
quietly  up  to  his  room. 

The  rest  of  the  Cottage  was  dark. 


XII 

"pELHAM  avoided  his  father  the  next  week.  The  son 
•*•  came  late  to  breakfasts,  his  father  did  not  return  for 
luncheon,  and  in  the  evenings  Pelham  dropped  by  one  of 
the  clubs  for  dinner. 

He  simply  could  not  face  the  parent.  They  had  passed, 
several  times,  on  the  place ;  they  had  spoken  politely.  But 
Pelham  felt  that  this  was  only  a  courteous  truce.  Their 
ways  of  thinking  were  irreconcilable  ;  what  he  regarded  as 
his  father's  intellectual  dishonesty,  plus  his  own  open  op- 
position at  the  federation  meeting,  brought  the  conflict  to 
a  head  at  last. 

His  father  was  pledged,  soul  and  brain,  to  things  as 
they  were.  He  was  deaf  to  the  call  of  progress,  blind  to 
what  was  imminent  in  the  world  around  him,  Pelham's 
emotionalized  thinking  told  him.  Paul  was  a  Democrat, 
as  grandfather  Judson  had  been;  he  would  remain  one, 
even  though  he  must  see  that  the  tariff  issue  was  an  out- 
worn ruse,  and  that  the  states'  rights  question  had  been 
wiped  out  bloodily  fifty  years  before.  He  was  a  capi- 
talist ;  he  would  remain  one,  as  long  as  a  sleepily  tolerant 
public  opinion  permitted  this  criminality  in  its  midst. 

Yes,  criminality !  Property  was  theft ;  Pelham  was 
glad  to  find,  in  his  new  favorite,  "Erewhon,"  an  insistent 
echo  of  Proudhon's  declaration.  The  lands,  the  waters, 
and  their  products  shaped  by  labor's  hands,  must  belong 
to  labor,  to  the  people ;  no  whitewashing  by  legal  titles 
could  make  the  robbery  justifiable.  Capitalist  industry,  in 
which  his  father  played  a  growing  part,  was  symbolized 
by  the  employer's  fingers,  like  a  legitimatized  sneak- 

129 


130  MOUNTAIN 

thief's,  perpetually  in  the  laborer's  pocket-book.  It  was 
all  the  worse  that  accepted  morality,  law,  even  the  church, 
pronounced  it  righteous.  And  his  father  was  irretriev- 
ably part  and  parcel  of  it. 

Pelham  took  it  up  with  his  mother,  in  one  forlorn  at- 
tempt to  win  her  backing.  She  checked  sharply  his  criti- 
cism of  Paul.  "He  is  your  father,  Pelham.  He  is  older, 
knows  more,  than  you.  I  cannot  listen  to  you." 

A  sense  of  shame  prevented  the  son's  turning  to  Jane. 
He  saw  her  once  or  twice ;  but  she  had  been  so  right,  he 
so  wrong,  about  his  father,  that  he  could  not  feel  at  ease 
with  her,  until  the  sting  of  the  disappointment  wore  off. 
Pelham  was  ashamed  to  go  to  her;  he  went,  instead,  to 
the  clubs. 

Dorothy  was  away ;  but  he  made  out.  On  the  night  of 
Sue's  dance,  he  delayed  until  almost  midnight,  in  order  to 
avoid  his  parents.  He  had  worked  late  that  afternoon, 
and  had  walked  afterwards  through  the  new  portion  of 
Hewintown  that  lay  on  both  sides  of  the  railroad  track. 
The  drabness,  the  noisome  poverty,  even  in  new  shacks, 
depressed  him  immeasurably ;  his  disgust  at  the  utter  in- 
artistry  had  long  been  dulled. 

As  he  paused  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  to  the  dancing 
floor,  the  shocking  contrast  unsteadied  him.  There,  where 
the  workers  lived,  all  was  bleak  want;  here,  where  the 
drones  celebrated,  all  was  plenteous  riot. 

The  curving  lines  of  dazzling  gowns,  where  Lane  Cul- 
lom  led  an  elaborate  figure — the  shimmer  of  jewels,  the 
gross  powdered  bosoms  of  the  chaperones,  the  smug 
smartness  of  the  men — what  a  pitiable  travesty  of  pleas- 
ure! Festooned  flowers,  deferential  service,  barbaric, 
subtly  lascivious  music — this  waste  would  have  fed  those 
workers  for  years !  These  were  not  brilliant  nor  creative 
people — merely  average  humanity,  whom  the  spin  of  the 


THE  JUDSONS  131 

unfair  wheel  had  swung  to  the  top,  to  fling  broadcast  the 
stolen  blood-toll  of  underpaid,  underfed,  underwise 
grubbers. 

An  overdressed,  overperfumed  matron  brushed  down 
the  steps,  and  gushingly  pushed  her  simpering  daughter 
at  him.  An  indecent  exposure,  as  of  a  woman  whose 
charms  were  on  sale — his  mind  leapt  to  a  miner's  widow, 
holding  by  the  hand  her  anemic,  sunken-eyed  daughter, 
who  had  stopped  him  and  begged  for  work  that  afternoon 
— any  work,  to  keep  life  in  her  daughter's  body.  And 
this  waste ! 

Shaking  off  the  depressed  mood,  he  submerged  his 
moralizing  nature,  and  lashed  himself  into  a  hearty  share 
in  the  pleasure-making.  The  unhealthy  intoxication 
caught  and  held  him ;  he  danced  and  philandered  with  an 
abandon  foreign  to  his  nature.  He  felt  that  his  part  in 
the  revel  dirtied  him.  Once  started,  he  hurled  himself 
almost  hysterically  into  the  soiling  gayety. 

He  had  told  Tom  Hewin  he  might  be  late  the  next 
morning,  despite  the  rush  caused  by  wartime  orders;  it 
was  after  four  when  he  went  to  bed.  A  troubled  dream 
bridged  his  passage  from  sleep  to  waking. 

He  dreamt  that  he  was  flying — a  common  beginning 
of  his  dreams.  He  had  powerful,  sullen  red  wings,  that 
beat  against  the  gusty  waves  of  wind,  and  swirled  him  up 
and  forward  out  of  the  misty  valley  shadows  toward  the 
lean  black  peak  of  a  solitary  hill.  Here  a  figure  cowered 
— for  a  moment  he  fancied  it  was  Jane.  It  turned  fright- 
ened eyes  up  to  his — no,  it  was  his  mother.  He  crept  into 
her  embrace. 

All  at  once  he  was  aware  of  an  approaching  darkness 
flying  between  him  and  the  twinkling  valley  lights  at  an 
unbelievable  depth  below.  The  darkness  took  form  as  a 
vast  black  flyer  mounting  toward  him.  He  unwound  his 


132  MOUNTAIN 

mother's  arms  from  his  neck.  Dimly  he  knew  that  it  was 
a  time  of  war,  and  those  twinkling  lights  were  the  eyes  of 
vast  munition  factories,  packed  with  explosives. 

In  a  slanting  drop  he  shot  toward  the  black  figure.  He 
did  not  see  the  face ;  but  he  knew  it  for  his  father.  Lower 
and  lower  he  and  the  black  figure  circled,  until  the  night 
activity  below  could  almost  be  made  out.  He  avoided 
two  beating  rushes  of  the  black  wings.  He  grappled  with 
the  enemy. 

He  felt  his  arms  pressing  outward  the  fierce  talons  that 
sought  to  grasp  him,  his  hands  straining  against  the  puls- 
ing throat.  Back,  back,  back  he  pressed — then  with  a 
mighty  effort  released,  and  flung  the  other,  wheeling  like 
a  thrown  stick,  straight  into  the  factory  of  death  below. 

Desperately  his  wings  beat  upward.  A  wide-tongued 
flash  of  fire  bit  into  the  night,  there  was  a  crash  as  if  the 
earth  burst  apart. 

Still  half  asleep,  he  sat  up  in  bed.  The  roar  rang  in 
his  ears.  The  house  shook;  fragments  of  window  pane 
tinkled  on  the  floor. 

Out  of  bed  he  jumped,  avoiding  the  broken  glass,  still 
uncertain  what  was  dream,  what  reality. 

Somewhere  outside  he  heard  a  negro's  frightened 
scream,  and  the  sound  of  running  steps. 

He  pulled  on  a  shirt  and  a  pair  of  working  trousers,  and 
knotted  his  shoe-strings.  As  he  ran  down  the  hall,  Hollis, 
his  tones  shaking,  was  speaking  to  the  doctor  on  the  wire. 

On  reaching  the  back  porch,  a  peculiar  smell  struck  his 
nostrils — just  a  suggestion  of  a  heavy  odor  that  he  knew 
at  once.  The  dead  fumes  of  dynamite — could  they  be 
blasting  that  close  to  the  house?  An  overcharge,  per- 
haps? 

Over  the  sink  his  mother  bent,  washing  the  blood  from 
the  arm  of  the  cook,  Diana.  "What's  the  matter, 
mother?" 


THE  JUDSONS  133 

She  turned  an  alarmed  face  to  his.  "The  glass  cut  her 
arm — nothing  serious.  Hollis  is  phoning  the  doctor."  As 
he  came  closer,  she  whispered,  "Artery." 

"Can  I  help?" 

She  looked  white  and  worried.  "You'd  better  go  to  the 
mine,  Pelham.  It's  an  explosion,  I  think." 

"Which  way?" 

"Sounded  very  close — that  first  ramp,  perhaps " 

He  went  for  the  car ;  it  would  be  quicker,  and  it  might 
be  needed. 

As  he  cut  through  the  gap,  on  the  road  just  under  the 
summit  in  front,  parallel  to  the  old  dummy  line,  he  no- 
ticed that  the  gap  workings,  and  the  second  ramp,  were 
deserted.  The  road  turned  sharply  to  the  north,  circling 
the  long  squat  storehouse.  He  slowed  mechanically,  as 
a  quick  side  squint  caught  the  group  on  the  steps:  Mc- 
Ardle,  the  clerk,  his  anemic  face,  under  the  sparse  scrub 
of  beard,  flushed  from  his  emotional  exertion,  hectoring 
the  dozen  frightened  negroes  in  front  of  him. 

"What's  wrong,  Mac  ?" 

The  white  man  cursed  the  panicky  negroes,  the  explo- 
sion, his  job  which  kept  him  tied  to  the  building.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  get  'em  to  go  back,  Mr.  Judson,  the "  He 

was  off  again. 

"Leave  the  store,  come  on  with  me "  He  snapped 

open  the  door  of  the  car. 

"Got  to  watch  the  phone.  The  hospitals  are  sending 
doctors " 

"It's  that  bad?" 

Pelham  turned  on  the  power  again,  and  turned  up  the 
front  of  the  hill.  The  air  was  clear  here  of  the  sickly 
odor  that  had  reached  the  house — the  wind  swept  this 
slope  clear  of  the  reminder  of  what  lay  beyond.  Just  be- 
fore the  ramp  buildings  showed  beyond  the  trees,  it  came 
to  him  again — the  stabbing,  strangling  odor  of  exploded 


134  MOUNTAIN 

dynamite.  The  tendency  to  nausea  twisted  his  face  into 
grotesque  inhumanity;  he  held  his  breath  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  shoved  on. 

Now  he  had  a  view  of  the  head  of  the  ramp,  and  the 
shacks  on  both  sides.  His  first  impression  was  that  it 
looked  strangely  usual :  same  houses,  same  isolated  scrags 
of  trees,  all  the  familiar  slopes  and  rises.  A  cloudy,  half- 
hysterical  belief  fought  within  him  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened ;  surely  exploding  death  and  stifling  horrors  had  not 
torn  this  kindly  hill,  these  humble  workers ! 

His  vision  cleared.  The  shacks  were  not  the  same; 
there  was  only  a  torn  dilapidation  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  opening,  only  the  vacuous  shells  of  buildings  stood  on 
the  nearer  side.  Horror  visible,  a  wavering  fog  of  dust 
and  gray-smoky  vapor,  hovered  over  the  top  of  the  ramp. 
The  huddling  activity  of  the  figures  grouping  and  scat- 
tering above  the  opening,  this  was  all  unusual. 

Running  the  car  against  a  mound  of  red  earth,  he 
climbed  clumsily  out.  His  legs  trod  an  unreal  soil ;  it  was 
as  if  he  had  forgotten  how  to  articulate  their  use.  The 
hurrying  men  descending  the  artificial  slope  did  not 
notice  him ;  they  were  intent  on  what  was  below. 

On  the  third  level  he  passed  four  figures  lying  parallel, 
motionless,  dreadfully  relaxed.  He  pressed  his  hands 
madly  against  his  face,  to  clear  the  dust  from  his  eyes, 
the  punishing  ache  from  his  nostrils.  He  stopped,  unable 
to  proceed ;  dead  men  even  this  high  up!  One  of  the  men 
shuddered,  raised  himself  sideways.  He  saw  that  they 
were  merely  resting,  recovering.  The  rescue  work  must 
be  going  on,  then !  He  hurried  lower. 

Here  was  Tom  Hewin,  eyes  bloodshot,  a  blackened 
bandage  bulging  out  from  his  forehead.  "You  too  ?" 

Hewin  came  closer,  peering  emptily  into  Pelham's  face. 
He  muttered  something. 

"What's  'at?" 


THE  JUDSONS  135 

"Hell."  The  manager  held  to  his  arm,  as  a  rock  to 
cling  to,  and,  walking  painfully,  led  him  down  the  clut- 
tered ramp,  deeper  into  the  dizzying  mist.  Every  few  feet 
he  stopped  to  shout  disjointed  explanations  or  profanity 
into  Pelham's  ear.  Grotesque  shapes  appeared  suddenly, 
flowed  both  sides  of  them,  were  gone.  Flickering  lanterns 
bobbed  horribly  around  the  entrances ;  they  stumbled  over 
two  prone  figures,  their  wavering  lantern  lights  sputtering 
out,  like  star-headed  deities  fallen  and  expiring.  Wild 
bursts  of  imaginative  activity  rocked  Pelham's  percep- 
tions; there  was  nothing  real  in  the  whole  thing.  The 
only  living  creatures  were  himself  and  this  shrunken, 
dirtied  being  who  shouted  in  his  ear,  descending  ever  into 
a  darkening  pit. 

"It  got  them  convicts.  .  .  ."  The  story  stopped,  as 
they  picked  their  way  carefully  around  two  uniformed  in- 
ternes desperately  applying  a  pulmotor  to  a  body  flat  on 
old  sacking.  There  was  another  body  behind,  and  four 
tall,  tired  negroes  drooped  on  their  feet,  waiting  to  be  sent 
again  into  the  stifling  danger.  "Everybody  in  six  .  .  . 
maybe  eight.  I  counted  eighteen."  He  took  a  moment 
off  to  scream  commands  at  a  foreman,  who  nodded 
humbly,  and  led  his  men  back  into  the  opened  mountain 
intestine  called  entry  six.  "Eight  is  choked  up  with 
rocks.  They  wasn't  many  in  eight.  Niggers,  maybe." 

"They're  digging  in  ?" 

"They  got  into  six.  Working  on  eight — the  whole 
mountain's  caved  down." 

"What  did  it?" 

"Overcharge — damn'  carelessness — God  knows.  At 
this  time  of  all  others — the  damn'  fools !  I  told  them  men 
that  roofin'  was  cracked — an'  then  they  overcharge !  The 
damn' " 

"Shall  I  take  eight?" 

"I've  got  Gahey  there.     See  the  clerk  at  the  bottom; 


136  MOUNTAIN 

he's  got  the  dope.  Wire  the  State  Mining  Commission. 
We've  notified  the  hospitals  and  the  Red  Cross.  I've 
sent  for  the  Birrell-Florence  rescue  corps ;  dunno  what 
good  it'll  do.  See  Dockery;  he's  day  clerk."  Hewin 
shoved  him  on,  and  stumbled  aside. 

The  air  was  clearer  in  the  corrugated  iron  building  at 
the  bottom.  The  lights  were  lit,  and  their  sallow  glimmer 
equalled  the  dimness  without.  Pelham  went  at  the  job 
quickly — Dockery,  cool  and  collected,  spread  the  facts 
before  him.  He  followed  on  the  ramp  map ;  Dockery  ex- 
plained lucidly.  "In  this  workway  there  were  thirteen 
men,  Mr.  Judson;  ten  negroes  here;  and  here,  and  here 
.  .  .  I  figure  about  twenty-five  killed,  unless  some  are 
alive  in  eight." 

The  human  magnitude  of  the  thing  focussed  within 
him.  He  gripped  himself  tightly,  and  sent  off  a  prelimin- 
ary wire  to  the  mining  commission.  It  was  after  two 
when  he  got  away  from  the  office,  to  direct  the  temporary 
care  of  the  bodies  which  had  been  carried  to  the  store- 
house in  the  nearer  edge  of  Hewintown. 

He  saw  Jane  Lauderdale  at  the  other  end  of  the  long 
drab  room,  busily  directing  the  emergency  workers  the 
United  Charities  had  sent.  Deaf  to  the  questions  of  the 
company  doctor  at  his  side,  he  stood  for  a  long  moment. 
Jane  put  her  arms  under  the  shoulders  of  a  broken  old 
negress — mother  or  wife — clinging  to  one  still  body  on  a 
blanket-covered  packing  case,  and  handed  her  tenderly  to 
another  of  the  girls.  He  caught  one  full  glance  at  the 
woman's  face,  ravaged  with  a  life's  hard  unhappiness, 
printed  now  with  this  vaster  dumb  suffering.  The  sharp 
clear  brilliance  of  Southern  sunshine  drove  in  parallel 
golden  bars  from  a  western  window.  Outside,  the  gay 
blue  of  early  summer,  the  beauty  and  joy;  within,  this 
man-made  house  of  death. 

Jane  did  not  see  him.    He  returned  to  the  grim  task  of 


THE  JUDSONS  137 

providing  for  what  new  bodies  were  borne  into  the  tem- 
porary morgue. 

He  could  not  find  time  to  think;  here  was  all  that  he 
could  do. 


XIII 

THE  morning's  mail  included  one  letter  of  importance 
for  Pelham.  It  was  a  form  announcement  of  a 
directors'  meeting  of  the  mining  company,  at  ten. 

Judge  Florence  was  calling  the  group  to  order,  when 
Pelham  arrived.  The  young  mining  engineer  took  one 
comprehensive  look  around  the  massive  directors'  table, 
a  plate-glass-covered  stretch  centering  the  sumptuous 
gray  office.  Slowly  he  let  himself  into  the  one  vacant 
chair.  Paul  Judson  sat  next  to  the  head ;  Henry  Tuttle, 
of  Tuttle  and  Mabry,  general  counsel  for  the  corpora- 
tion, was  talking  earnestly  to  him.  Kane,  one  of  Judson's 
directors,  was  grouped  with  two  of  the  younger  men 
from  the  other  interest.  Sam  Ross,  John  and  Stephen 
Birrell,  Randolph,  Pelham  nodded  to  each  in  turn :  their 
faces  seemed  to  him  carved  into  a  new  heartless  savag- 
ery,— a  huddled  group  of  soul-squeezing  masters  of  men. 

As  general  manager,  Paul  reported  briefly  the  facts  of 
the  accident,  with  evidence,  gathered  by  company  de- 
tectives, that  the  blow-up  originated  in  a  miner's  crimi- 
nal carelessness  in  seriously  overcharging  in  number 
six  entry.  This  was  due  to  wilful  misunderstanding  of 
the  company's  haste  to  get  out  iron,  to  take  advantage 
of  war  prices ;  haste,  but  not  carelessness,  was  demanded. 

Two  of  the  fourteen  in  the  entry  most  affected  were 
still  alive;  one  had  given  his  deposition  at  the  hospital, 
telling  of  the  conversation  between  the  miner  and  his 
foreman  immediately  preceding  the  explosion,  in  which 
the  dead  miner  had  boasted  of  the  overheavy  charge. 

"There  are,  according  to  the  latest  reports,"  Paul  con- 

138 


THE  JUDSONS  139 

eluded,  "twenty-two  dead,  and  about  thirty  injured  in 
greater  or  less  degree.  Spence  and  Jacks  have  filed  al- 
ready the  first  damage  suits.  If  we  pay  these  claims, 
it  will  cost  the  company  from  a  quarter  of  a  million  to 
a  million  dollars.  Since  the  company  is  not  at  all  re- 
sponsible, I  recommend  that  we  make  no  settlement 
whatever."  His  thin  lips  lifted  together,  and  contracted. 
He  sat  down. 

"Can  you  give  us  the  legal  side,  Henry?"  Jeremiah 
Florence  had  lifted  Henry  Tuttle  from  Choctaw  Falls  to 
Adamsville,  and  started  him  on  the  driving  career  that 
made  him  the  worst-feared  corporation  lawyer  in  this 
part  of  the  South.  He  regarded  him  now  with  fatherly 
admiration. 

Tuttle  rose  lankly,  his  thin  watery  eyes  staring  with 
fixed  impassivity.  His  voice  was  soft  and  malleable ;  he 
was  never  hurried,  never  vehement;  he  possessed  a 
tact  that  caught  the  idea  of  the  more  creative  type,  then 
carried  it  to  unerring  completion.  "Paul's  suggestion 
would  hold,  if  we  decided  to  follow  it.  There  is  no 
liability  in  this  state  for  such  an  accident;  it  would  be 
a  different  matter  if  the  legislature  had  passed  that  ad- 
ditional liability  act  last  fall.  That  is  the  legal  side." 

He  took  his  feet  more  slowly  in  answer  to  the  chair- 
man's second  question.  "Public  policy?  That  is  per- 
haps different.  It  might  be  well  to  make  some  sort  of 
settlement.  It  's  never  hard  to  buy  off  Spence  and  Jacks ; 
three  or  four  hundred  apiece — a  thousand  at  the  most — 
they'd  keep  half,  or  more " 

John  Birrell,  the  older  of  the  two  boys,  who  retained 
much  of  the  implacable  push  that  had  carried  old  Stephen 
Birrell  to  the  headship  of  the  local  mining  industry, 
spoke  sharply  from  his  seat.  "I  agree  with  Mr.  Judson. 
This  is  no  time  to  yield;  ore's  high  enough  to  pay  for 
any  unpleasantness.  Give  them  an  inch,  they'll  demand 


140  MOUNTAIN 

the  whole  plant.  They  were  restless  before,  in  our 
mines  as  well  as  the  Judson ;  even  the  furnaces  report 
union  talk.  This  is  the  chance  to  step  on  the  whole 
matter." 

Three  or  four  expressions  of  similar  vigor  were  too 
much  for  Pelham.  He  took  the  floor  unsteadily;  the 
glances  bent  on  him  were  curious,  almost  pitying.  The 
table's  circle  had  read  of  the  pass  with  his  father  at  the 
labor  convention;  there  was  an  uneasy  titillating  expec- 
tancy as  to  how  much  of  a  fool  he  would  make  of  him- 
self, how  long  he  could  hang  on  to  the  fringes  of  busi- 
ness, while  he  nourished  a  sprouting  radicalism. 

"I  represent  only  two  shares  as  a  stockholder,"  he  be- 
gan painstakingly.  "I  am  only  one  director.  But  I 
wonder  if  you  gentlemen  know  what  you  are  doing. 
Thirty  of  your  workers  lie  seriously  injured;  twenty- 
two  families  are  deprived  of  their  bread-winners  through 
an  accident  not  their  fault,  but  yours;  yours,  and  other 
mining  employers'  who  have  fought  all  safety  legisla- 
tion, even  as  late  as  last  week "  His  eye  caught  a 

side  glimpse  of  his  father's  unperturbed  profile,  as  he 
rolled  an  unlighted  cigar  around  the  rim  of  his  teeth. 
"It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  these  were  convicts,  or 
negroes ;  many  were  hired  white  workers.  I  don't  know 
how  well  you  have  the  law  sewed  up ;  but  every  idea  of 
justice  entitles  them  to  full  settlement.  Any  other  de- 
cision would  be  an  outrage." 

The  aged  chairman,  while  disavowing  any  sympathy 
with  the  spirit  of  the  young  man's  remarks,  wondered 
if  a  proper  regard  for  public  opinion  would  not  dictate 
some  middle  course.  The  younger  Birrell  sided  with  him, 
as  did  Sam  Ross,  Tuttle,  and  several  others.  At  length 
Paul  Judson  was  asked  again  for  his  opinion. 

"Gentlemen,  you  understood  what  I  said  before.  I 
have  told  you  what  you  must  do — refuse  to  pay  one  cent 


THE  JUDSONS  141 

to  any  claimant,  no  matter  how  strongly  the  claim  is 
pressed.  Any  other  course,  in  the  long  run,  will  be  sui- 
cide. Unless  you  want  ultimate  bankruptcy,  you  will 
treat  this  as  a  business  matter."  He  gathered  into  a 
portfolio  the  papers  before  him.  "I  have  some  mat- 
ters to  attend  to.  I  have  shown  you  how  to  handle 
the  matter.  You  can  call  me  in  for  a  vote." 

The  discussion  veered  and  twisted  after  his  abrupt 
departure ;  but  Pelham  could  not  fail  to  see,  even  through 
his  disgust,  how  his  father's  insistent  advice,  no  matter 
how  unpleasantly  phrased,  dominated  the  group.  The 
driver  of  men  is  never  popular ;  and  Paul  Judson's  keen, 
aggressive  mind  drove  them  against  their  wills.  Within 
an  hour  a  resolution  embodying  his  idea  was  put  and 
carried  with  only  the  son's  dissenting  vote. 

The  Times-Dispatch  contained  a  report  of  the  meeting, 
and  an  interview  with  Paul  Judson  stressing  the  legal 
side  of  the  situation.  An  editorial  referred  to  the  dis- 
aster as  one  of  the  necessary  casualties  of  industrial 
growth,  paid  tribute  to  the  company's  promise  of  further 
safety  devices,  and  hung  on  an  attack  on  the  "forces  of 
unrest  that  sought  to  make  capital  of  the  accident,  to 
aid  their  insidious  unAmerican  propaganda." 

Pelham  was  puzzled  by  this  wording,  until  he  came 
across  Jane,  who  had  charge  of  the  relief  work  among 
the  victims'  families.  Her  large  eyes  sparkled  with  a 
light  of  warfare,  as  she  fell  into  step  beside  him,  among 
the  poor-ridden  shanties  of  Hewintown.  "You  hadn't 
heard?  Why,  it's  all  over  town  now,  Pell.  There's  a 
big  meeting  at  Arlington  Hall  at  seven-thirty  to-night,  to 
discuss  the  accident — and  a  strike !" 

"Fine!  It  had  to  come — the  radical  unionists  were 
just  waiting  the  chance." 

"Will  you  take  me?" 

"You  couldn't  keep  us  away." 


142  MOUNTAIN 

They  arrived  early,  but  the  crowd  had  come  earlier. 
Only  by  taking  stage  seats  were  they  able  to  get  in  at 
all.  When  the  son  of  the  owner  of  the  mine  was  recog- 
nized, there  was  slight  hissing,  and  scattered  handclap- 
ping  from  a  few  Socialists.  Jensen  came  over  quietly 
to  Pelham,  his  eyes  dancing.  "Your  application's  gone 
through,  my  boy;  Hernandez  has  your  red  card  in  his 
pocket." 

They  shook  hands  silently.  Now,  Pelham  realized,  he 
was  a  recognized  member  of  the  red-bannered  army, 
who  were  leading  man  into  his  promised  earthly  herit- 
age. 

Michael  Serrano,  who  presided,  plunged  into  the  thing 
that  had  brought  them  there.  "I'm  a  bricklayer  by  trade, 
as  you  all  know.  The  bricklayers  have  made  me  presi- 
dent of  their  local  four  times.  I'm  called  the  'reddest  of 
the  red.'  If  this  murderous  mine  accident  doesn't  make 
all  of  you  reds  too,  then  you  aren't  fit  for  anything  but 
to  be  murdered !" 

The  crowd  stamped  approval.  They  had  come  in 
fighting  spirit;  the  proper  key  had  been  hit  from  the 
start. 

"Now,  if  ever,  is  your  chance  to  win  your  rights.  The 
papers  have  been  slobbering  of  wartime  profits  on  ore; 
the  reckless  haste  to  line  their  pockets  was  the  real  cause 
of  this  explosion  for  which  the  worthy  directors  of 
your  mines  are  responsible.  They  can't  afford  a  shut- 
down now ;  this  is  your  hour  to  win !" 

Turning  from  the  applause,  he  introduced  Ben  Spence 
as  "a  labor  lawyer,  with  a  union  card  in  place  of  a 
heart."  Spence  and  Jacks  were  the  regular  federation 
attorneys,  and  Spence  was  quite  close  to  Pooley  and 
Bivens;  but  he  always  professed  a  near-socialism  that 
captivated  his  hearers  in  Labor  Day  addresses.  He 
passed  from  a  humorous  opening  into  an  indictment  of 


THE  JUDSONS  143 

the  mining  corporations  that  brought  the  hot  crowd 
clamoring  to  their  feet,  with  wild  shouts  of  "Go  to  it, 
Ben !  Eat  'em  up !" 

The  next  few  speeches  scattered.  Pelham  wondered 
if  the  mass  desire  would  evaporate  without  action.  Ser- 
rano saw  the  drift,  and  walked  over  to  where  the  son 
of  Paul  Judson  sat  drinking  in  the  wild-mouthed  de- 
nunciation of  his  father's  rapacity  and  cold-heartedness. 
"I'm  going  to  call  on  you,  comrade." 

"You  have  to?" 

The  chairman  nodded.  "You  give  'em  hell.  I'll  sound 
'em  out  first.  These  regular  unionists — pfui !"  He  spat 
in  scorn,  and  went  back  to  his  splintered  gavel. 

Jack  Bowden,  of  the  Miners',  tied  up  with  the  Big 
Pooley  gang,  finished  his  inconclusive  remarks.  At  once 
Serrano's  orotund  Italian  voice  shot  out  into  the  crowd. 
"Now  you've  heard  what  you're  getting.  And  you've 
heard  what  you're  entitled  to.  How  many  miners  are  in 
this  crowd?  Raise  your  hands." 

Amid  general  neck-stretching,  the  hands  went  up — 
almost  a  third  of  the  vociferous  audience.  There  was  a 
rattle  of  applause  at  the  good  showing. 

"Are  you  going  to  stand  being  treated  as  dirt,  or  will 
you  act  like  men  ?  How  many  of  you  miners  vote  strike  ? 
Let's  hear  your  voices!" 

The  shout  of  approval  showed  how  avid  they  were  for 
some  direct  expression  of  their  accumulated  resentment. 
Bowden,  a  worried  look  on  his  face,  rose  to  protest ;  the 
ecstatic  chairman  waved  him  down. 

"I'm  going  to  do  an  unusual  thing.  I'm  going  to  call 
on  one  of  your  employers  to  tell  what  he  really  thinks 
about  you.  I  call  on  Comrade  Pelham  Judson,  assistant 
manager  of  the  Birrell-Florence-Mountain  Mining  Com- 
pany." 

There  was  no  applause.    Pelham,  tremendously  alone, 


144  MOUNTAIN 

walked  down  to  the  front  of  the  big  platform.  His  mind 
registered  random  impressions — the  faded  tawdriness 
of  the  cheap  bunting  below  the  dirty  footlights,  the  smell 
of  fetid  cigars  and  pipes,  bulging  necks  above  dirty  un- 
starched collars,  the  fierce  resentment  and  shining  hunger 
for  better  things  flaring  in  the  eyes  just  below  him.  The 
irresistible  contrast  with  the  suave  gray  fittings  of  the 
directors'  room  flooded  him. 

He  summoned  all  his  knowledge  of  speaking,  and 
stood  silent,  his  eyes  ranging  the  vast  pit  and  the  jammed 
galleries. 

"Fellow  laborers — comrades "  His  voice  choked. 

"Many  of  you  know  how  I  think  about  this.  What  hap- 
pened two  days  ago  on  that  red  mountain  I  love  was 
murder — definite,  systematized  murder.  The  danger  has 
always  been  known;  and  when  every  effort  to  wipe  out 
that  danger  by  law  has  been  fought,  and  the  deaths  oc- 
cur, I  call  that  deliberate  murder !" 

There  was  a  startled  pelt  of  applause  in  one  corner  of 
the  room.  It  did  not  spread;  the  others  were  too  in- 
terested, too  surprised,  to  pass  judgment. 

"What  ought  you  to  do?  Your  referendum  will  de- 
cide. If  I  were  in  your  places,  there  is  only  one  thing 
I  could  do — and  that  is,  strike!  Strike  against  the  com- 
pany, and  me — yes!  Strike  for  the  enforcement  of  the 
weak-kneed  mining  law,  and  for  a  better  one!  Strike 
for  more  pay,  shorter  hours,  and  your  organization! 
Fight  back!  Unite" — his  long,  tense  arms  reached  out, 
and  drew  in  together  in  a  clenching  grasp — "bring  to- 
gether your  force  as  one  man,  and  there  is  no  power  in 
the  world  that  can  stand  against  you !" 

This  was  familiar.    They  howled  agreement. 

"There  are  two  ways  you  must  strike.  Part  of  the 
blame  lies  with  that  legislature  at  Jackson.  You  elected 
them;  you  can  retire  'em.  Strike  politically.  Unite  at 


THE  JUDSONS  145 

the  polls — there'll  be  a  labor  ticket,  the  socialist  ticket, 
for  every  office — drive  it  home  to  victory !  Then  you 
will  have  laws  which  would  make  such  an  explosion  an 
impossibility !" 

There  were  a  few  mock  groans  from  the  Voice  of 
Labor  crowd,  but  the  majority  still  sat  silent. 

"You  have  a  quicker  weapon,  on  the  industrial  field — 
a  strike.  We've  all  read  the  announcement  of  the  com- 
pany's action;  my  vote  was  the  only  one  against  it  at 
the  directors'  meeting.  You  must  strike  to  teach  your 
masters  what  they  can't  do!  Strike  for  justice  to  the 
thirty  men  maimed  and  crippled  in  the  cause  of  profits ! 
Strike  for  the  twenty-three  families  who  are  the  worst 
sufferers  from  this  hell.  Yes,  twenty-three,  Mr.  Chair- 
man; I  received  phone  word  that  Hank  Burns  died  of 
his  injuries  at  six-thirty  to-night."  There  was  a  faintly 
rising  moan  of  anger  at  this.  "If  you  unite,  as  I  believe 
you  will,  there  is  no  power  in  the  world  that  can  stop 
you!" 

He  went  back  to  his  seat,  trembling,  his  forehead  moist 
with  frigid  sweat.  Jane's  rapturous  hands  caught  his; 
he  felt  fully  repaid. 

The  meeting  broke  up  in  an  uproar  of  enthusiasm. 

As  he  started  for  the  Andersons'  with  Jane,  the  mad 
spell  of  a  June  moon-bright  night  caught  and  tortured 
him,  until  it  was  pain  to  think  of  letting  her  go.  The 
cool  darkness  rushed  by  on  both  sides.  Out  of  the  crev- 
asses of  big  buildings  they  passed  into  the  more  open 
stretches  of  low  urban  homes.  The  country  club  road 
invited ;  they  slid  over  gentle  rises  until  they  had  their 
fill  of  tree  rustle  and  moon  shimmer.  Against  the  sky 
they  traced  the  soft  outlines  of  the  swan  and  the  lyre 
swung  to  the  East  over  the  dull  rose  glow  of  unsleeping 
furnaces ;  but  the  persistent  flood  from  the  moon  dulled 
even  Vega  to  a  mild  glimmer.  At  length  the  car  whirred 


146  MOUNTAIN 

up  the  last  hill,  and  stopped  in  front  of  the  darkened 
house  where  she  was  to  sleep. 

There  was  so  much  to  be  said.  The  beauty  of  the 
night  was  throat-catching,  and  lifted  them  away  from  the 
hectic  scene  at  Arlington  Hall,  and  the  bitter  fight  that 
to-morrow  must  bring.  He  felt  her  full  sympathy  with 
the  attitude  he  must  take;  her  first  hand-grasp,  as  he 
took  his  seat  after  the  speech,  told  him  that.  His  hand, 
as  the  car  waited  before  her  house,  lingered  fearfully 
against  hers;  an  electric  current  snapped  between  the 
two. 

His  fancy  played  fitfully  with  fantasies  that  started 
with  his  lifting  that  warm  dear  hand  to  his  kiss  .  .  .  then 
the  yielding  lips  .  .  .  then  the  mutual  surrender.  But 
like  a  scourge  memory  listed  over  to  him  the  mouths  he 
had  kissed,  youthfully,  poignantly,  casually.  .  .  .  No,  he 
had  done  with  that.  This  must  be  no  mere  union  of 
bodies;  love  should  begin  with  a  pure  communion  of 
kindred  spirits.  A  kiss,  a  caress — these  were  the  soft 
persuasive  preludes  to  the  swelling  finale  of  mating; 
cheapen  them,  wear  out  their  springbud  freshness,  and 
the  blossom  of  mated  love  must  remain  stunted,  like  a 
frost-warped  dogwood  flower, — must  henceforth  be 
soiled,  like  a  draggled  pear-blossom  mired  by  an  April 
downpour.  Hereafter  he  would  hold  his  lips — and  keep 
hers — inviolate,  virginal;  the  miraculous  event  of  love 
consummated  should  not  be  fouled  by  recollections  of 
squandered  embraces,  of  cheap  philanderings. 

The  desire  to  touch  and  conquer  the  hand  beside  his 
almost  overpowered  him,  despite  his  ascetic  musing. 
Spasmodically  he  pulled  his  hand  away.  A  force  stronger 
than  his  will  brought  it  slowly  back,  until  it  shivered 
against  hers. 

Quietly,  with  restrained  and  schooled  abandon,  his 


THE  JUDSONS  147 

words  breathed  out.  "Jane  .  .  .  dear  .  .  .  dearer — 
dearest " 

Her  intuitive  eyes  read  the  words  that  were  coming, 
before  his  own  mind  framed  them.  A  sudden  blossom- 
ing of  joy  surged  within  her,  so  great  for  a  moment  that 
it  prevented  speech;  then,  panic-stricken,  she  wished  to 
postpone  the  inevitable  question,  to  delay  the  rapture, 
to  flee  away,  with  the  words  unspoken,  for  just  a  little 
longer  to  consider  the  matter.  .  .  .  She  said  nothing  of 
this;  her  silence,  blent  into  the  silence  of  the  mountain 
at  the  end  of  the  rise  before  them,  was  voluble  with  an- 
other message  than  delay  or  hesitation. 

An  agony  of  doubt  racked  him.  Hadn't  he  been  mis- 
taken all  along?  Wouldn't  she  laugh  at  him,  for  his  pre- 
sumption in  reading  even  toleration  in  her  eyes,  that 
radiated  indifferently  upon  things  unworthy,  like  him- 
self, and  worthy  alike?  Would  he  dare  go  on?  He 
must — even  if  her  laugh  shattered  the  iridescent  sphere 
of  his  hopes. 

An  impassioned  eagerness  to  get  the  words  out  made 
his  tone  forced  and  unnatural.  "Will  you  have  me,  Jane? 
Will  you  love  me — a  little?  I  know  I've  no  right  to 
speak — my  affairs  are  so  tangled,  and  all " 

Then  she  raised  her  arm,  until  the  hand  was  above  his 
head ;  and  her  fingers  touched  his  hair  gently,  caressing- 
ly, soothingly. 

"Jane.  .  .  ."  His  voice  was  rich  with  reverent  un- 
belief. 

"Pelham  dear " 

In  excess  of  happiness,  he  caught  the  hand  beside  him 
almost  to  his  lips;  and  then,  instead,  pressed  it  against 
his  breast,  against  his  heart. 

His  laugh  was  almost  incoherent.  "I  was  so  afraid 
you'd  say  'no.'" 


I48  MOUNTAIN 

The  light  shone  only  on  her  averted  cheek.  "I  was 
so  afraid  .  .  .  you  wouldn't  ask  me !" 

"Silly  girl!  When  every  infinitesimal  part  of  me 
aches  and  cries  out  to  you!  I  can't  believe  yet  that 
you've  said  yes." 

"Yes,"  in  joyous  affection. 

"And  I  will  aim  a  lifetime  toward  making  you  glad 
you've  said  it!" 

"I'll  always  be  glad,  no  matter  what  comes." 

"I've  got  to  let  you  go  now — it  must  be  almost  three. 
.  .  .  And  I'm  not  going  to  kiss  you,  even  now,  dearest — 
dearest — dearest!  I'll  say  it  all  night  to  myself;  I'll 
never  use  another  word 

"Well,  hardly  ever,"  she  amended  prettily. 

"When  we  can  be  married,  then  you'll  let  me  kiss  you. 
And  don't  put  me  off  too  long!" 

He  fingered  the  wheel  thoughtfully;  why  let  her  out 
at  all?  No,  he  must  help  protect  her  now. 

"Good  night,  Jane  .  .  .  dearest  mine." 

"Good-night  .  .  .  my  man." 

His  car  sliced  the  friendly  night  that  lay  heavy  on  the 
hill  road.  He  whirled  up  the  great  half  circle  to  the 
crest  far  to  the  east  of  the  cottage,  and  muffled  the  en- 
gine at  the  highest  point.  To  his  left,  too  far  away  to  be 
distinguished  except  as  an  irregular  blackness  against 
the  softer  gray  of  the  valley  behind,  lay  the  black  peak 
of  Crenshaw  Hill,  the  fatal  shattered  entries  beyond  it, 
the  mourning  shacks  of  Hewintown  near  it.  There  was 
no  light  in  them.  Behind  was  the  blur  of  Shadow  Valley, 
and  the  endless  diminishing  rollers  of  hills  sloping  slowly 
to  the  salt  gulf  monotonous  miles  away.  Before  him  lay 
Adamsville,  almost  asleep;  the  symmetrical  criss-cross 
of  lights,  like  a  vast  checker-board  blending  into  the  far 
distance,  caught  his  imagination.  His  heart  sang  aloud 
with  his  own  happiness — an  emotion  so  overcoming,  that 


THE  JUDSONS  149 

he  forced  himself  to  think  of  lesser  topics,  to  regain 
mental  balance  before  returning  to  the  rapture  of  Jane 
again.  .  .  . 

The  iron  city,  an  iron  checker-board  of  lights.  .  .  . 
The  will-less  men  moved  here  and  there  by  great  hands 
hidden  in  the  opposing  darknesses — by  capital's  sleek  and 
pudgy  paw,  by  labor's  grimed  and  toil-stained  fingers: 
behind  these,  moved  by  the  greater  mastery  of  the  forces 
of  nature;  by  the  mountain,  and  the  iron  grip  it  em- 
bodied ;  by  the  touch  of  the  golden  god  that  was  to-day  its 
master.  A  futile  game,  for  the  poor  pawns  .  .  .  where 
one  in  a  thousand  became  king ;  and  kingship  brought  no 
joy,  but  only  division  and  unrest.  The  blasted,  furnace- 
punished  ore  was  material  for  the  painful  alchemy  that 
made  it  gold :  more  than  this,  the  miners  themselves,  the 
stooped  laborers,  the  slatternly  starved  wives,  the  thin 
children,  the  corpses  lifted  from  the  ruptured  bowels  of 
the  hill,  to  a  final  scattering  in  some  cheap  pine  house 
of  decay — all  these  were  part  of  the  horrid  modern 
alchemy  that  made  them  gold  for  his  father's  sake.  That 
he  had  ever  been  a  part  of  it!  Well,  with  Jane  his,  he 
was  through  with  the  old  horrors.  .  .  . 

Jane  .  .  .  with  an  effort  he  brought  his  mind  again  to 
the  scene  before  him.  The  sleeping  homes  of  the  iron 
city,  black  in  the  darkness  before  him!  Each  of  those 
tiny  houses  held  situations,  problems,  as  complex  as  that 
storm  that  must  soon  break  over  the  cottage  beyond  the 
mining  section.  They  were  all  asleep,  gathering  strength 
for  fresh  outbreaks  of  hatred  and  love. 

What  if  they  never  woke?  What  if  the  sleep  became 
a  merciful  finality,  sponging  out  the  aimless  unrest  men 
called  life?  Who  could  say  which  would  be  better? 

For  him,  his  problems  simplified,  glorified  now  by  what 
Jane  had  said  to-night,  life,  with  all  its  zest  and  joyous 
restlessness,  was  infinitely  preferable. 


ISO  MOUNTAIN 

He  must  go  on ;  he  must  make  the  complete  break  with 
his  father,  and  soon.  It  was  a  perilous  thing,  this  going 
alone;  but  he  knew  that  he  was  able  to  do  it,  just  as 
he  had  once  roamed  alone  the  hidden  reaches  of  the 
mountain. 

He  stood  out  from  his  car,  to  be  nearer  to  the  moun- 
tain. It  was  an  instinctive  action  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained. The  soft  strength  of  the  soil  rose  through  him; 
he  felt  refreshed.  It  was  not  only  battlefield,  but  the 
cause  of  the  struggle;  it  was  the  prize  to  be  won  by  the 
angry  puppets  its  iron  strings  pulled  here  and  there. 
There  was  no  other  course  he  could  follow;  he  felt  a 
calm  certainty  that  the  mountain,  the  great  dark  mother 
with  its  bleeding  iron  heart  of  red,  understood  this,  and 
was  wholly  in  accord  with  it.  The  mountain  understood 
it — and  a  dearer,  nearer  heart,  his  from  henceforth. 

He  slept  at  length  peacefully. 

Paul  Judson  pushed  the  next  morning's  paper  over  to 
Mary  without  words,  his  stiff  forefinger  indicating  the 
part  he  wished  her  to  read.  It  was  an  account  of  the 
previous  night's  meeting,  featuring  a  florid  write-up  of 
Pelham's  emotional  outburst. 

She  finished  it  without  comment. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  evenly.  "There  has  never 
been  any  insanity  in  either  side  of  the  family,  or  I  would 
think  Pelham  came  by  this  naturally." 

"He  isn't  a  fool,  Paul." 

"Where  does  he  think  this  will  end?  It's  bad  enough 
when  we  are  united  against  the  perpetual  unrest  of  the 
ignorant  mob.  But  to  have  my  son  turn  against  all  that 
his  ancestors  fought  for!" 

Mary  watched  him  thoughtfully.  "You  two  cannot 
pull  together,  Paul.  Why  not  help  him  get  somewhere 
else?" 

"You  mean " 


THE  JUDSONS  131 

"You  mentioned  that  Governor  Tennant  wanted  to 
do  you  a  favor,  and  suggested  Pell  as  mining  inspector, 
or  something.  Wouldn't  that  straighten  out  this  situa- 
tion?" 

Paul  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "One  of  us  has  to 
make  the  break.  Of  course,  he'll  make  trouble  wherever 
he  is.  But  he  is  my  son.  A  thing  like  that  might  make 
him  behave." 

Finishing  his  coffee,  he  pushed  his  chair  back  rasp- 
ingly  over  the  hardwood  floor.  Over  in  the  boys'  wing 
he  called  Ned.  "Will  you  tell  Pelham  I  would  like  to 
speak  to  him?" 

Father  and  eldest  son  walked  quietly  out  over  the  un- 
touched portion  of  the  outcrop  before  the  house.  "You 
don't  want  me  to  discuss  with  you  the  unusual  line  of 
activity  you  have  taken  up,  Pelham.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  only  fair  to  tell  you,  father,  that  I  have  joined 
the  socialist  party." 

"You  don't  intend  to  remain  with  the  mining  com- 
pany." 

Pelham  gulped.    This  was  what  it  must  mean. 

"I  can  get  Bob  Tennant  to  appoint  you  a  State  Mining 
Inspector.  You  can  live  on  the  salary." 

"There  is  no  work  I  would  rather  do.  ...  Of  course, 
I  can  not  change  my  ideas." 

"We'll  regard  it  as  settled.  I'll  wire  him  this  morn- 
ing." 

Two  days  later,  Pelham  received  the  notification  of 
the  appointment,  just  before  Spence,  the  labor  lawyer, 
had  him  on  the  phone.  The  young  mine-operator  at 
once  shared  his  information. 

"That's  splendid,  Judson !  I've  got  news  too — the  ref- 
erendum was  eight  to  one  for  strike — and  the  national's 
wired  that  John  Dawson's  on  the  way !  Big  John  Daw- 
son — now  for  some  fireworks!" 


152  MOUNTAIN 

This  was  progress,  with  a  vengeance!  Pelham  was 
free  at  last  of  the  company;  the  revolution— at  least  in 
Adamsville — was  heartily  on  its  way.  With  Jane's  spirit 
backing  him,  and  always  beside  him,  he  felt  that  this 
hectic  week  had  justified  itself.  Now  for  the  triumphant 
clash ! 


XIV 

JOHN  DAWSON,  organizer  of  the  National  Federa- 
tion of  Miners,  picked  his  way  through  the  raw  gray- 
ness  of  the  Union  Depot,  in  the  muscle-cramped  crowd 
that  came  in  on  the  day  coaches  of  the  5  :io,  until  he 
reached  the  station  itself.  His  eyes  picked  out  the  hesi- 
tant clot  of  four  men  off  to  one  side.  "You  the  com- 
mittee ?" 

Serrano  introduced  them  briefly:  Jack  Bowden,  state 
agent  of  the  miners;  Ben  Wilson  and  John  McGue,  of 
the  strike  committee.  Dawson  clenched  each  hand  in  a 
vast  paw,  then  beckoned  them  away  from  his  two  grips. 
"Wait  a  minute."  His  alert  eyes  sieved  the  crowd.  "See 
them  two  boys  in  gray  hats?  They've  followed  me  all 
the  way  from  Wilmington.  Hope  they've  had  a  nice 
trip;  I  do  love  detectives.  .  .  ."  He  motioned  them 
away.  "Naw,  I  carry  my  own."  Adjusting  the  two  big 
valises  carefully,  he  smiled,  "Let's  move." 

They  went  out  through  the  truck  entrance,  and  across 
the  gusty  avenue,  clanging  with  cars  filled  with  early 
workers.  Depot  idlers  stared  at  the  group ;  the  tall  heavy- 
loaded  man  in  the  center  would  hold  attention  anywhere. 

Serrano  stopped  half  a  block  away,  at  a  flamboyant 
entrance  displaying  "Mecca  Hotel"  in  dirty  white  let- 
ters above.  The  clerk,  a  limp  young  man  without  a  col- 
lar, shoved  over  the  tobacco-stained  page.  Dawson 
signed  it,  forming  each  letter  painstakingly.  They 
walked  up  one  flight  to  the  room. 

Dawson  looked  around  critically. 

i53 


154  MOUNTAIN 

"Biggest  room  they  have.  They'll  put  in  the  other  two 
beds  to-day." 

"Some  of  the  boys  may  have  to  spend  the  night  here. 
I'm  glad  it's  near  the  station,  if  any  quick  getaway  has 
to  be  made."  The  organizer  smiled,  his  lips  curling  back 
over  big  front  teeth;  there  was  something  disquieting 
and  unsmiling  in  the  look. 

Serrano  got  rid  of  the  rest  of  the  committee,  and  went 
into  an  elaborate  detail  of  the  situation. 

Dawson  was  able  to  help  him  out.  "You'll  find  I  know 
the  land  pretty  well.  I  worked  three  years  in  the  West 
Adamsville  mines;  they  ran  me  out  in  the  strike  of  '04. 
Who  can  you  count  on?" 

He  listened  attentively,  checking  certain  names  in  a 
thick  yellow  notebook. 

"I  know  this  Jack  Bowden  kind.  We  find  'em  all 
over.  In  West  Virginia  we  amputated  a  bunch  like  that. 
We've  got  'em  in  Chicago,  Indianapolis,  New  York.  .  .  . 
Give  'em  a  few  days,  and  they'll  show  yellow;  then  it's 
easy  to  fire  'em.  Bowden  looked  fishy.  These  labor 
tin  Jesuses  make  me  sick!  Better  than  anybody  else, 
and  sold  out  in  advance.  Who's  this  Judson?" 

The  energetic  bricklayer  told  of  the  recent  convert, 
and  the  Arlington  Hall  meeting. 

"He  can  talk?  We'll  use  him.  But  you  can't  trust 
them  fellows  too  far.  I'm  not  a  socialist,  you  know; 
don't  believe  in  voting  worth  a  damn.  Never  got  no- 
where, never  will  get  nowhere.  But  in  a  strike,  they 
help." 

They  went  over  the  morning  paper.  "Mmm — only  a 
few  hundred  out What's  the  straight  goods?" 

"Over  five  hundred  from  the  Judson  mines,  six  fifty 
from  the  Birrell-Florence,  and  about  four  hundred 
others  from  the  mines  on  either  side.  We  haven't 


THE  JUDSONS  155 

touched  West  Adamsville.  yet,  or  Irondale.  If  only  the 
furnaces  could  be  called  out.  .  .  ." 

"Won't  come.  We  can  try ;  but  mine  strikes  don't  get 
'em.  No  organization.  These  men  all  joined?" 

"Joined  or  joining." 

"This  says  scabs  from  Pittsburgh.  .  .  .  No  law  to  stop 
Jem?" 

"Ben  Spence,  our  lawyer,  says  there  isn't.  In  the  last 
street-car  strike  we  tried  the  law;  the  courts  wouldn't 
enforce  it." 

"How  do  the  boys  feel?" 

"They  want  to  fight  like  hell.    They'll  stop  the  scabs." 

"Got  to  be  careful  there.  That  sort  of  thing  is  dyna- 
mite; it  blows  both  ways.  Company  won't  hear  the 
committee  ?" 

"Young  Judson's  father's  the  reason.  Says  he  won't 
allow  a  union  man  in  his  shop  hereafter.  No  committees, 
nor  nothing." 

"Let's  see  the  place." 

They  walked  from  the  end  of  the  car  line.  The  roads 
through  the  property  had  been  made  city  streets,  when 
Hillcrest  Addition  was  thrown  open  to  the  public,  and 
the  party  could  not  be  stopped.  Dawson  paused  to  shake 
hands  with  the  groups  of  pickets  on  the  various  cross 
roads.  He  had  a  personal  word  for  each,  and  a  con- 
centrated way  of  getting  the  details  he  needed  out  of 
the  incoherent  members  of  the  working  body. 

Joined  by  Ben  Wilson  and  several  of  the  pickets,  they 
passed  into  the  company  estate,  and  by  the  entrances  to 
the  gap  drifts  and  the  second  ramp.  Only  a  few  ne- 
groes were  at  work  in  the  gap ;  it  was  not  until  the 
second  big  slope  that  the  white  workers  appeared.  Daw- 
son  looked  a  question  at  stocky  Wilson,  hardly  up  to  his 
vest  pocket. 


156  MOUNTAIN 

"Convicts.    Almost  three  hundred  of  them." 

"Any  niggers  go  out?" 

"Half  a  dozen.  You  met  one,  Ed  Cole,  picketing  by 
Thirtieth  Street." 

A  red-faced  Irishman  walked  out  of  a  knot  of  work- 
ers and  greeted  the  tall  organizer.  "Hello,  Dawson. 
Remember  me?" 

"Your  mug's  familiar.  Lemme  see — your  name's 
Hewin,  ain't  it?" 

The  superintendent  grinned.  "You  ought  to  remem- 
ber it.  You  beat  hell  out  of  me  in  the  Coalstock  strike 
for  staying  on  as  foreman." 

"Scab  then,  eh,  and  still  at  it."  Dawson's  tolerance 
had  a  touch  promising  danger. 

"That's  what  you'd  call  it.  I'm  in  charge  here.  Mind 
your  own  business,  or  I'm  not  the  one  who'll  get  beat  up 
this  time."  He  turned  with  grinning  ugliness  and  climbed 
back  to  the  opening. 

They  cut  over  to  the  railroad  track,  and  entered  Hew- 
intown  by  the  back  way.  Dawson  studied  the  land  care- 
fully. "That's  the  way  they'd  bring  the  train  from 
Pittsburgh,  of  course.  And  that's  a  pretty  narrow  cut 
beyond  that  dinky  little  house.  Who  lives  there?" 

"Mr.  Judson,  the  vice-president." 

"This  ain't  no  place  for  a  mine-owner." 

Dawson's  comment  on  the  shack  town  was  a  string  of 
profanity.  "Even  in  West  Virginia  they  had  better 
dumps  than  those!  I  wouldn't  let  my  pig  live  there. 
Company  houses,  as  always." 

"Yes." 

"This  crew  out?" 

"All  but  two  or  three.  The  convict  stockade  is  on  the 
next  hill;  the  niggers  live  in  Adamsville,  or  in  Lilydale, 
over  yonder."  His  pudgy  fingers  pointed  through  the 
trees  to  the  south. 


THE  JUDSONS  157 

They  passed  company  detectives  and  guards,  in  clus- 
ters of  two  or  three,  at  every  corner.  "These  always 
here?" 

"Most  of  them  new." 

"We'll  help  'em  earn  their  money.  .  .  .  Take  me  by 
number  three,  and  the  hospital  you  mentioned.  I  want  to 
see  it  all." 

They  were  not  allowed  to  go  down  this  ramp;  guards 
with  shotguns  refused  to  allow  any  ingress.  "You 
might  get  blowed  up  too,  buddy." 

Serrano  left  them,  to  pass  around  the  word  of  the 
meeting  that  night.  Dawson  listened  to  the  vivid  hatred 
of  the  company  all  the  way  down  the  hill.  A  vigorous 
nod  punctuated  his  opinion.  "That's  what  they  are;  a 
bunch  of  lousy  murderers.  It's  no  worse  here  than 
other  places;  you've  got  to  fight  for  what  you  get,  any- 
where. Pretty  bunch  of  uglies  here  already !  And  when 

they  try  to  run  in  Pittsburgh  scabs "  He  did  not 

finish. 

The  momentum  of  the  strike  grew  day  by  day.  Most 
of  the  papers  continued  unfriendly;  but  the  Register, 
which  made  a  point  of  claiming  to  stand  for  the  man 
in  the  shop  as  well  as  the  man  in  the  office,  insisted  that 
public  sentiment  was  with  the  strikers,  especially  be- 
cause of  the  recent  memory  of  the  accident  horror. 

The  packed  meetings  in  Arlington  Hall  were  reported 
favorably  in  this  paper;  and  they  were  emotional  suc- 
cesses. John  Dawson  was  not  a  graceful  speaker;  but 
his  harsh  bellow  meant  business,  and  his  imperative  mag- 
netism shone  through  the  awkwardest  gesturings.  Bow- 
den  contributed  suave  appeals,  and  Big  John  Pooley, 
the  state  president,  took  the  floor  the  second  night  to 
remind  that  organized  labor  stood  behind  their  efforts. 
"I  am  sure,"  he  boasted,  "that  you  will  win,  and  even 


158  MOUNTAIN 

sooner  than  you  expect.  You  have  the  companies  prac- 
tically beaten  now." 

Serrano  turned  to  Dawson,  puzzled.  "What's  he  get- 
ting at,  with  that  stuff?" 

The  enormous  organizer  looked  at  him  searchingly. 
"If  you  watch  a  snake  hole,  you're  liable  to  see  the  snake 
crawl  out  sooner  or  later." 

During  the  rest  of  Pooley's  speech,  the  huge  organizer, 
head  sprawled  back  against  the  wall,  chin  upraised, 
studied  the  speaker  with  a  hungry  intentness,  as  if  in- 
vestigating for  that  weak  spot  he  had  found  every  man 
to  possess.  The  bricklayer  chairman  phrased  and  re- 
phrased to  himself  his  introduction  for  the  next  speaker, 
one  of  the  negro  miners.  It  was  always  risky,  this  open- 
ing the  union  doors  to  the  black  workers.  Of  course,  as 
a  socialist  Serrano  always  urged  it,  arguing  that  labor's 
only  safety  lay  in  having  this  convenient  surplus  labor 
force  within  its  own  ranks,  as  protection  against  black 
scabbing;  but  there  was  some  division  in  the  local  about 
it,  and  the  southern  unionist  took  slowly  to  the  idea; 
occasional  revivals  of  racial  intolerance,  based  upon  dis- 
like of  sharing  work  with  the  darker  cousin,  split  unions 
and  federations,  delaying  solidified  strength  for  years 
and  decades. 

Pooley  ended  with  lame  vehemence;  and  the  voice  of 
the  Italian  chairman  thundered  another  plea  for  labor's 
unity,  introducing  a  black  man  to  show  that  no  boundar- 
ies of  nation  or  race  counted  in  the  centuries'  long  battle. 
"I'm  going  to  call  on  Will  Cole  to  speak  to  you.  Will  is 
a  black  man,  who  was  in  Number  Eight  entry  when  the 
dynamite  murder  took  place.  His  dead  comrades  talk 
to  you  through  his  living  lips.  Come  on,  Will,  tell  us 
why  you  don't  look  for  a  pay  check  this  week." 

They  laughed  at  the  rude  jesting  at  the  invariable 
boomerang  effect  of  their  sole  weapon  of  protest — a 


THE  JUDSONS  159 

laugh  that  quieted  to  respect,  as  the  grimy  overalled 
negro  was  urged  up  the  side  steps  and  to  the  center  of 
the  stage.  His  eyes  blinked  at  the  dazzle  of  the  lighting 
until  the  whites  showed ;  his  shoulders  hunched  deprecat- 
ingly.  He  could  not  speak  to  them  as  man  to  man,  that 
he  knew;  the  difference  in  color  was  ever  in  his  mind, 
and  in  his  audience's. 

"Ah'm  only  a  nigger,"  he  began  diffidently.  "You-all 
white  folks  don't  want  niggers  in  yo'  unions,  you-all 
don't  want  us  to  wu'k  whar  you  do.  Some  er  you  don't 
lak  us  havin'  our  own  union.  An'  niggers  is  crazy  too; 
Ah  kaint  make  dat  wu'thless  gang  in  number  two  come 
out,  nohow. 

"But  Ah  come  out.  You-all  know  Jim  Cole  was  in 
Number  Six  when  de  mine  exploded;  you-all  know  he's 
dead  now.  Ah  live  on  dat  mountain,  same  as  Mister 
Judson.  Dere  ain't  no  more  reason  why  me  'n'  mah 
brudder  should  a  got  killed  in  dem  mines  dan  why  he 
should  a.  Ah  done  jined  dis  union,  an'  Ah'll  die  befo' 
Ah'll  scab.  An'  any  scab  dat  comes  mah  way  had  better 
have  his  ears  all  aroun'  his  haid !" 

They  chuckled  at  the  conclusion,  but  it  made  its  effect. 
"When  you  all  unite,  white  and  black,  you  can  snap  your 
fingers  at  all  the  Paul  Judsons  in  the  world!"  Serrano 
never  lost  a  chance  to  drive  home  a  point. 

Next  afternoon's  headlines  promised  the  arrival  of  a 
trainload  of  workers  during  the  night.  This  lent  an 
added  air  of  uncertainty  to  the  meeting  following.  Daw- 
son's  pleas  to  the  men  to  hold  fast,  to  convert  the  scabs 
with  arguments,  not  bricks,  were  as  strong  as  ever;  but 
despite  the  ample  audience,  even  he  was  a  little  upset  by 
the  fact  that  the  whole  Bowden-Pooley  crowd  were  ab- 
sent from  their  stage  seats. 

When  he  got  around  to  Machinists'  Hall  later  in  the 
same  evening,  for  the  conference  over  the  next  day's 


160  MOUNTAIN 

activities,  he  found  the  state  labor  organization  present 
in  full  force.  The  ornate  double  rows  of  mahogany- 
stained  chairs,  arranged  in  a  hollow  diamond  shape,  to 
accommodate  the  fraternities  that  met  in  the  hall,  with 
raised  seats  at  the  four  points  of  the  diamond  for  the 
officers,  were  half  filled  with  the  Pooley  followers.  Daw- 
son  called  the  meeting  to  order. 

Jack  Bowden  rose,  spit  carefully  into  the  shiny  brass 
cuspidor,  placed  there  to  preserve  the  long-haired  red 
carpet,  and  began.  "Men,  the  strike  is  won !  We've  been 
in  consultation  with  Mr.  Judson  and  Mr.  Kane,  and  the 
whole  thing  is  to  be  called  off  to-morrow  morning !  They 
agree  to  consider  every  one  of  our  demands,  provided 
only  we  don't  insist  on  the  demand  for  unionization. 
We  can't  win,  with  this  trainload  of  detectives  and 
workers  from  up  north ;  I  think  we're  lucky  to  beat  'em 
this  way."  He  turned  to  Dawson.  "You've  done  mighty 
fine  work,  John  Dawson;  and  the  state  treasury  of  the 
mining  union  will  be  glad  to  foot  your  bill  comin'  here 
and  goin'  back." 

Dawson  was  out  of  the  chair,  his  throat  palpitating, 
almost  too  choked  to  get  out  a  word.  "I've  been  waiting 
for  you  and  your  kind  to  show  your  hands,  Bowden.  I'm 
glad  you've  done  it  this  soon.  Did  Mr.  Judson  say  he 
would  grant  all  demands,  except  unionization?" 

Pooley  shifted  his  lame  leg,  and  spoke  up.  "Mr.  Kane 
it  was  we  talked  to  to-night." 

Dawson's  clear-thrown  tones  fired  the  next  question 
at  him.  "Did  Mr.  Kane  promise  to  grant  every  demand, 
except  only  unionization?" 

"He  said  they'd  consider  'em.    It's  the  best " 

"It's  nothing,  and  you  know  it!  Fire  me  and  the 
real  union  men  who  are  making  the  trouble,  and  turn 
the  whole  thing  over  to  you  yellow-livered  double-deal- 
ers— a  fine  way  to  run  a  strike !  With  us  gone,  and  the 


THE  JUDSONS  161 

strike  broken,  then  your  Mr.  Kane,  who  isn't  even  a 
boss,  would  agree  to  consider  the  demands.  Are  you 
damned  fools,  or  plain  ordinary  crooks?" 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Bowden  started  to  reply, 
but  was  checked  by  fear  of  injury,  as  Dawson  took  one 
tremendous  step  toward  him.  Pelham  Judson,  seated 
to  the  right,  caught  his  eye.  "If  that  there  Judson's  son 
had  spilled  this  soft-soap,  I  could  get  it;  you  might  ex- 
pect it  from  he  and  his  class."  Pelham  winced  at  the 
scorn.  "But  you — a  union  card  dirtied  in  your  pocket, 
you,  a  Judas  to  your  kind — you  got  no  place  in  a  room 
with  decent  men." 

Pooley  tried  to  bolster  up  Bowden's  pallid  protest, 
blustering,  "You  look  here,  Dawson.  The  State  Federa- 
tion of  Labor " 

"Damn  the  State  Federation  of  Labor!  If  any  or- 
ganization, labor  or  otherwise,  stands  in  the  way  of  our 
beatin'  a  fight,  we'll  smash  it!  We're  going  to  win,  do 

you  get  me?  You  keep  out.  As  for  you,  Bowden " 

He  came  close  to  the  local  agent,  bending  down  from  his 
towering  six  feet  and  a  half  to  bring  his  face  near  the 
other's.  "You  better  get  out,  before  I  have  the  national 
office  down  on  your  neck.  This  is  final :  from  now  on, 
you  stay  out.  We'll  run  the  strike  without  any  talk  from 
you.  Go  back  and  tell  your  Mr.  Kane  that  there's  a 
bunch  here  he  can't  double  cross,  or  buy  out!  Now 
git!" 

Three  times  the  suave  agent  started  to  speak.  His 
fingers  wandered  uncertainly  up  and  down  the  shiny  but- 
tons of  his  fancy  vest,  his  eyes  glanced  away  from  the 
brutal  dominance  in  the  huge  face  before  him.  At  last 
he  turned  to  Pooley.  "Coin',  John?" 

Pooley  noted  the  cringe,  and  his  nostrils  lifted  slightly. 
He  spoke  definitely.  "There's  no  hard  feelin'  about  this, 
Dawson?  You  understand  that " 


162  MOUNTAIN 

"Yes,  I  understand."  The  sudden  burst  of  anger  had 
gone;  there  was  a  vast  patience  in  every  syllable.  "I 
understand;  you  needn't  explain."  He  turned  dispas- 
sionately to  the  others.  "Now,  boys,  what's  the  reports 
for  to-day?" 

The  work  was  finally  done;  they  started  out.  At  the 
door  they  were  stopped  by  half  a  dozen  newspaper  men, 
who  had  been  held  up  by  the  doorman  until  the  con- 
ference was  over.  "Anything  special  for  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Dawson?" 

The  big  miner  grinned  amicably.  "You  might  say 
everything's  coming  our  way.  With  twenty  two  hundred 
men  out,  and  five  of  the  mines  stopped,  things  are  lookin' 
up." 

The  reporter  for  the  Advertiser  pushed  out  a  question. 
"Did  you  advise  violence  in  stopping  these  workers  from 
the  North?" 

"Good  God,  no,  man !  That's  the  very  thing  I'm  fight- 
ing against.  You  heard  me — in  every  speech.  We're 
law  abiding.  If  there's  any  lawbreaking  to  be  done,  let 
the  companies  do  it."  He  smiled  grimly.  "They're  itch- 
ing for  us  to  give  'em  an  excuse  to  bring  on  the  militia, 
as  they  did  in  '04,  when  they  massacred  the  miners. 
They'll  fail;  we'll  fight  within  the  law." 

He  scribbled  vigorously.  "Is  it  true  you  were  driven 
out  of  Montana  and  West  Virginia,  and  almost  lynched 
in  Michigan?" 

Dawson's  neck  swelled,  his  eyes  smouldered.  "Yes, 
it's  true,  every  bit  of  it.  And  I  was  driven  out  of  this 
state  in  '04.  I  expect  it  in  my  business.  You  might  say 
things  is  changing,  and  it  may  be  Mr.  Paul  Judson  who's 
driven  out  next  time." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  appreciation  from  the  com- 
mittee. 

"I  guess  that's  all." 


THE  JUDSONS  163 

One  reporter — it  was  Charley  Brant,  of  the  Register 
— called  Pelham  aside.  "Gotten  any  word  from  the 
mountain  recently  .  .  .  to-night?" 

"No;  why?" 

"That  trainload  of  workers  is  arriving;  there's  trouble, 
rioting  or  something." 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  Excitement  blazed  in  his  face.  "Tell 
John  Dawson  so." 

He  called  him  over  at  once. 

"We  got  a  phone  message  from  a  man  on  the  ground. 
It's  on  the  mineral  line,  halfway  between  Mr.  Judson's 
house  and  the  viaduct,  if  you  know  where  that  is.  Our 
man  said  it  was  serious." 

"I'm  going."    Dawson  sliced  his  words  off  briskly. 

"Use  my  car ;  it's  quicker,"  snapped  Pelham. 

Jensen,  McGue,  Dawson,  and  the  reporter  got  inside; 
two  others  of  the  committee  hung  to  the  running  boards. 

Pelham  drove  at  top  speed  out  the  Thirty-Eighth  Street 
road,  and  circled  around  the  crest.  "I  know  the  place," 
he  explained.  "We'd  better  come  up  from  behind,  if 
anything's  doing.  They  might  stop  us." 

He  turned  from  the  county  road  to  a  cool  country 
lane  cutting  through  tall  long-leaf  pine,  in  the  middle  of 
Shadow  Valley.  The  car's  lights  danced  unreally  on  the 
crowding  trunks  ahead,  the  wheels  slipped  and  skidded 
over  the  sprinkling  of  carpeting  needles.  He  whisked 
to  the  right,  and  took  the  hill  toward  the  mountain.  They 
had  heard  no  noise  as  yet. 

Up  a  gravelly  hogback  to  a  level  a  hundred  feet  from 
the  tracks, — and  they  were  in  the  midst  of  it.  The  un- 
certain rumble  from  men  massed  blackly  in  front  of  and 
all  around  the  stalled  engine's  headlight,  broke  over 
them;  they  saw  the  train,  somber  and  illy  lit,  stopped 
midway  of  the  deep  cut  through  the  next  chert  hill — 
an  ideal  place  for  an  ambuscade. 


164  MOUNTAIN 

They  heard  single  voices,  broken  by  the  spurty  wind. 
Then  the  men  in  front  of  the  car  dissolved,  into  the 
blackness  on  both  sides  of  the  track.  Now  they  could 
see  the  piled  mound  of  huge  stones,  cross  ties,  tree 
trunks,  which  had  stopped  the  engine.  Close  below  the 
headlight  was  a  moving  shadow  they  finally  made  out  as 
company  men,  they  could  not  tell  how  many.  The  red 
gleam  of  the  headlight  on  dull  metal  shone  on  the  far 
side.  Before  the  mound  of  rocks  and  stumps  two  men 
still  stood. 

"Get  off  that  track,"  the  words  came  clearer  now,  from 
one  of  the  men  just  below  the  headlight.  "Or  we 
shoot." 

It  happened  so  quickly  that  they  hardly  had  time  to 
get  out  of  the  car.  A  voice  came  from  one  of  the  two 
upon  the  track,  the  pleasant,  velvety  richness  of  a  negro 
voice.  "Ah  reckon  Ah  kin  walk  on  dis  track  ef  Ah  wants 
to." 

"You  black " 

He  did  not  finish.  From  the  deeper  shadow  below  the 
tender,  two  rifles  popped  together,  with  a  thin  hollow 
noise,  like  playthings.  There  was  a  shrieking  medley 
from  all  sides.  For  one  instant,  etched  black  against 
the  light  thrown  by  the  unwinking  eye  of  the  engine,  the 
two  figures  stood.  One  of  the  negroes  plunged  wildly 
to  the  side,  clattering  and  tumbling  down  the  seventy 
foot  fill  to  the  bottom  of  the  sharp  declivity.  The  other 
stood  alone,  a  black  break  on  the  lighted  area.  He 
screamed  once  like  a  kicked  dog.  He  slid  to  the  ground. 
His  body  huddled  across  a  rail. 

"God!"  Dawson  exploded.  Tumbling  out  of  the  car, 
they  started  pelting  toward  the  track. 

They  stopped,  still  thirty  feet  from  the  lighted  area, 
as  half  a  dozen  men  plunged  toward  them,  scattering  to 


THE  JUDSONS  165 

the  safety  of  the  woods.  One  came  at  them — Ben  Wil- 
son, who  should  have  been  with  the  committee. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  go  there — they're  shooting  to 
kill " 

Dawson  caught  him  by  the  collar,  shook  him  bitterly. 
"What  hell  of  a  mess  is  this !  We've  got  to  stop  it " 

Wilson  made  a  gesture  of  hopeless  exultation,  touched 
with  something  sublime.  "You  can't  stop  it  now !" 

Dawson  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

The  cries  became  louder,  from  all  around  the  motion- 
less train ;  they  looked  back.  Protected  by  the  guns  under 
the  headlights,  a  line  of  hesitating  men  were  cursed  for- 
ward to  where  the  obstacle  lay  crudely  across  the  tracks. 
The  leader  of  the  guards,  rifle  cached  on  his  left  fore- 
arm, pointed  this  way  and  that. 

The  reluctant  line  of  workers  burrowed  into  the 
mound.  Boulders  of  ore,  a  broken  wagon,  old  cross- 
ties  were  pulled  out  and  sent  bounding  into  the  seventy- 
foot  gulley,  each  starting  a  rocketing  train  of  pebbles 
and  rocks  after  it.  The  front  row  of  gunmen  had  moved 
silently  forward,  and  menaced  the  threatening  darkness. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shock  of  breaking  glass,  and  a 
herd  scream  from  the  front  car  just  behind  the  tender. 
A  cloudburst  of  stones  rained  against  the  length  of  the 
train  from  the  gap's  crests  on  both  sides.  Windows 
were  caved  in,  rocks  bounced  noisily  off  the  roof,  there 
were  gulped  outcries  from  the  penned  men  inside  the 
cars.  At  a  command,  the  rifles  flared  wildly  toward  the 
tops  of  the  cut. 

Wilson  pulled  out  a  pistol,  dropped  to  his  knees,  aimed 
carefully  at  the  leader  of  the  gunmen,  standing  awk- 
wardly in  the  exposing  glare. 

Dawson  jerked  the  pistol  from  his  hand,  and  sent  the 
man  tottering  sideways.  "Not  that  way." 


166  MOUNTAIN 

The  track  was  cleared  now.  Even  the  first  negro's 
body  was  laid  hurriedly  on  the  south-bound  rail.  But  the 
wild  bombardment  of  the  train  had  had  its  effect.  The 
bewildered  engineer  started  backing  into  the  gap,  in 
whose  deeper  shadows  the  reinforced  strikers  had 
further  advantage. 

One  boulder,  two-thirds  the  height  of  a  man,  was 
sent  lumbering  down,  gathering  momentum.  It  leapt 
against  the  side  of  a  car ;  for  a  moment  the  car  tottered. 
The  head  gunman,  seeing  his  men  deserted  by  the  train, 
stumbled  down  the  cross-ties  toward  it. 

"Hey,  stop!     Damn  you,  stop,  I  say!" 

His  voice  cracked;  he  began  again. 

It  was  a  rout  for  the  company  forces,  a  clear  victory 
for  the  strikers. 

Then  with  a  whirr  like  giant  mechanical  wings  the 
belated  guard  automobiles,  four  of  them,  swung  around 
the  curving  crest  of  the  road  fifty  feet  behind  and  above 
the  cut.  The  trees  and  underbrush  had  been  cleared  for 
just  this  purpose.  The  huge  searchlights,  one  to  each  car, 
wavered,  then  poured  their  blinding  flood  on  the  dark 
gap  summits. 

"Oh,  God!    The  deppities " 

The  light  itself  seemed  to  stagger  those  who  had 
been  triumphant  in  the  dark.  They  diverged  sharply 
from  the  point  of  advantage.  Those  on  the  far  side 
cleared  back  toward  the  east.  Those  on  the  near  side 
halted  uncertainly  for  a  fatal  second,  before  they  ran 
toward  the  two  ends  of  the  cut. 

"Let  'em  have  it!" 

An  intermittent  sheet  of  flame  broke  from  the  guard 
automobiles.  The  defenseless  workers  stopped  and 
tumbled  grotesquely.  To  Dawson's  horrified  imagina- 
tion it  seemed  that  more  than  a  dozen  lay  flat  and  twitch- 
ing in  the  hellish  flare  of  the  searchlights. 


THE  JUDSONS  167 

"Come  on!" 

"Got  'im,  Jim !" 

"Take  that,  you  damned " 

With  savage  yells  the  new  attackers,  firing  whenever 
they  saw  a  moving  target,  covered  the  slope,  and  halted 
above  the  train. 

"Hey,  there,"  bellowed  the  man  in  the  lead,  addressing 
the  train  crew  below.  "Whatcher  stop  for?" 

"We're  going  on." 

"Why  'n'  cher  go  on,  then?"  he  parroted  in  irritation. 

The  whistle  wailed,  the  engine  and  cars  shuddered 
forward  toward  Hewintown.  The  first  attack  was  over. 

"Well,"  Dawson  led  the  way  back  to  the  low  gray  car 
hidden  in  the  shadows.  "Hell's  loose  this  time !" 


Ill 

THE  COLES 


XV 


HPHE  youth  who  lay  dead  on  the  track  was  Babe  Cole, 
•*-    the  youngest  of  Tom  Cole's  four  sons. 

Three  years  before  Paul  Judson  left  Jackson,  in  an- 
swer to  that  wordless  message  of  the  mountain  that  he 
interpreted  as  promising  all  success  to  him,  Tom  Cole  had 
received  a  call  to  Shiloh  African  Baptist  Church,  the  tall 
white  church  at  the  corner  of  Pine  and  Gammon  streets, 
at  one  end  of  Atlanta's  sprawling  negro  section.  He  had 
not  succeeded  in  making  farming  in  Fulton  County  pay. 

"Nigguh  caint  make  money  grow  nohow,"  he  would 
complain  to  neighbors  who  had  come  to  the  crossroads 
church  to  hear  his  sermon,  and  stayed  for  the  inevitable 
discussion  of  crops  and  stock  and  any  other  topic  wan- 
dering minds  might  bring  up.  "Ah  kin  make  cawn  grow, 
an'  peas  grow,  an'  string-beans  grow,  wid  de  good  Lawd's 
blessin' ;  Ah  kin  make  pigs  grow,  an'  chickens  grow " 

"You  eats  'em  anyhow,  Brudder  Cole ;  ain't  sayin'  whar 
you  gits  'em,"  chuckled  Peter  Bibb,  the  oldest  elder. 

The  pastor  joined  in  the  laugh  against  himself. 
"Sounds  lak  you'se  tryin'  to  establish  an  allerbi,  Uncle 
Peter.  Mebbe  you  ain't  never  heard  dat  our  hens,  de 
Plymouth  Rocks  Aunt  Stella  tends  herse'f,  is  de  fattes'  in 
fo'teen  miles."  He  grinned  easily,  bringing  out  the  mesh 
of  bronzed  wrinkles  beneath  the  knotty  kinks  of  wire- 
black  hair,  powdered  with  uneven  gray  around  the  edges. 
"But  Ah  gotter  go,  breddren.  Caint  make  no  money  here 
nohow;  Ah's  done  preached  de  gospel  six  years  now  in 
dis  chu'ch,  an  Ah  reckons  Ah  done  'zausted  mah  mes- 
sage." 

171 


172  MOUNTAIN 

The  urban  congregation  was  proud  of  "Brudder  Tom" 
from  the  start.  "Ah  wuz  bawn  in  slavery,"  was  his  fa- 
vorite beginning,  "in  bodily  slavery ;  de  good  Lawd  done 
riz  me  to  freedom.  Ah  wuz  bawn  in  slavery,  in  spir'chual 
slavery;  de  good  Lawd  done  riz  me  to  freedom.  De 
Lawd  sont  me  to  bring  grace  erboundin'  an'  everlastin'  to 
you  sinnuhs;  come  unto  de  fol',  oh  brudders,  let  de 
Lawd's  bap^in'  wash  you  free  f'um  sin  an'  de  ol'  Deb- 
bie's tracks  on  yo'  soul "  They  rose  to  his  eloquent 

appeal ;  his  open  air  "bapJmn's"  up  Peachtree  Creek  were 
scenes  of  pervasive  religious  ecstasy. 

Preaching  was  pleasant,  but  not  profitable.  Tom  grad- 
ually secured  a  number  of  customers  who  called  him  in 
for  day  work,  keeping  lawns  in  order,  hedge-clipping,  and 
some  regular  gardening.  The  house  he  got  at  two  dollars 
a  week,  from  a  white  land-owner  interested  in  the  church ; 
and  there  was  a  succession  of  invitations  to  dinner  from 
the  members  of  his  congregation,  whether  well-to-do  or 
not ;  "feeding  the  minister"  was  an  acknowledged  duty  of 
all  good  African  Baptists.  But  there  were  Stella  Cole 
and  the  five  hungry  little  Coles  to  be  considered;  these 
were  not  included  in  the  invitation. 

Stella  finally,  through  the  aid  of  her  sister  Caroline, 
maid  to  a  family  on  Washington  Street,  got  work  as  cook 
in  one  of  the  big  houses  on  Pryor  Avenue.  It  was  much 
the  most  "hifalutin' "  section  of  the  city,  she  as- 
sured Tom,  and  Judge  Land  certainly  looked  the  most 
important  jurist  in  all  Atlanta,  when  he  walked  stiffly 
down  the  front  steps,  beneath  the  lofty  ante-bellum  pil- 
lars, and  let  "Miss'  Kate"  deftly  badge  him  with  a  lilac 
spray,  before  opening  the  low-swung  gate  and  passing 
into  the  changing  world  without. 

Stella  figured  that  the  two  dollars  a  week,  added  to  the 
panful  of  cornpone  and  scraps  of  left-over  meat  and  des- 


THE  COLES  173 

sert,-  which  she  was  expected  to  take  home  every  evening, 
raised  the  family  to  a  position  of  positive  prosperity. 

One  afternoon  Torn  Cole  sat  lounging  upon  a  bed  in  his 
back  room,  talking  over  with  a  committee  the  "chitterling 
supper"  to  raise  organ  money — an  entertainment  in  which 
the  church  members  gave  the  food,  then  bought  it  back, 
the  money  going  to  the  church.  He  was  rounding  up  an 
easy  third  year  at  Shiloh  Church,  and  looked  forward  to 
many  more. 

The  front  door  snapped  open  with  a  peculiar  sharp- 
ness. The  committeemen  sat  up,  surprised  and  puzzled. 
Stella's  voice  came  to  them,  high-strung,  weeping.  "Tom ! 
Lawd  hab  mercy !  Tom " 

From  behind  her,  through  the  closing  door,  they  heard 
an  unusual  hubbub  in  the  street. 

"Stella— here  Ah  is " 

She  stood  before  them,  leaning  against  the  door  jamb, 
one  hand  behind  her  back.  "Oh,  Tom!  They'se  killed 
Cah'line — they'se  killin'  all  the  nigguhs " 

Tom  drew  nearer,  his  eyes  open  in  alarmed  fascination, 
his  face  washed  with  a  dusky  pallor.  "Killed  Cah'- 
line  " 

"Get  mah  babies,  Tom.  We  gonter  leave  dis  place, 
now." 

"What's  all  dis,  Miss'  Cole  ?"  one  of  the  men  hurled  at 
her,  jumping  to  his  feet. 

"Lawsy,  you  po'  chile!  What's  de  matter  wid  yu' 
han'?" 

She  brought  it  out  from  behind  her,  bleeding,  crushed, 
pulpy.  "Rock  hit  me,"  she  said,  straightly.  "Git  de 
babies,  Tom.  We  gotter  go." 

"Whar  we  gwine?" 

"Gawd  knows.  Dey's  all  over  town  by  now.  Hung 
two  nigguhs  on  Capitol  Avernoo;  a  man  he  hit  Cah'line 


174  MOUNTAIN 

wid  a  rock,  an'  dey  stomped  all  over  her.  Listen  to  'em !" 
She  shrieked  this,  half  turning  to  the  front.  "Whar's  Ed 
'n'  Will?  Whar's  de  baby?" 

Tom  snatched  at  his  hat;  the  committeemen  reached 
for  theirs.  "Let's  go  out  de  back  way.  Diana's  mindin' 
de  babies,  all  de  boys  'cep'  Ed's  dar ;  he's  out  in  de  alley. 
Can  we  go  to  de  chu'ch  ?" 

'TJey's  burnin'  de  Meth'dis'  chu'ch  down  de  street." 

"Police?" 

"Won't  he'p  none." 

One  of  the  men  spoke  up.  "Mah  boss,  Mistus  Rylan, 
he  tole  me  ef  trouble  ever  come,  to  git  in  his  cellar  an' 
he'd  pertec'  me.  We  kin  go  'cross  lot.  You  all  go  on ; 
I'm  gwine  to  go  by  for  Mamie  an'  de  folks  upstairs." 

Stella  rounded  up  the  four  larger  children,  took  "Babe" 
on  her  arm,  and  steered  Tom  and  two  others  of  the  com- 
mittee across  back  fences,  and  obliquely  through  hot  July 
fields  of  sturdy  smartweed  and  brown-dusted  grass.  As 
they  came  out  of  an  alley,  just  a  block  away  from  the 
Rylan  back  gate,  they  saw  a  moving  flood  of  figures  down 
the  street  two  blocks  away.  The  thinned  tumult  reached 
them.  They  sneaked  across,  running;  Stella  waved  her 
bruised  hand  spasmodically.  "Lawd,  Lawd !" 

Mrs.  Rylan  came  at  once  in  answer  to  her  cook's  ex- 
cited message.  "Grade  will  show  you  the  way  to  the 
cellar.  I  hope  you'll  be  safe  there.  My  husband  phoned 
me  that  the  rioting  was  serious." 

In  the  underground  dimness  Stella  appropriated  for  her 
sobered  flock  a  garden  bench,  its  back  broken,  standing 
on  end  in  one  corner.  Tom's  coat,  spread  in  a  barred 
chicken  crate,  made  a  pallet  for  "Babe." 

"Keep  mah  place  fuh  me,  Diany,"  she  whispered  fierce- 
ly. She  helped  the  new  arrivals  get  fixed  on  barrel  tops, 
soap  boxes,  a  rickety  wheelbarrow,  even  an  old  set  of 
bed  springs  tucked  away  in  the  darkest  corner. 


THE  COLES  175 

"Maw,  will  dey  git  us  heah?"  the  children  repeated  in 
panicky  insistence. 

Stella  smelled  again  the  acrid  liniment  which  had  come 
through  the  crude  bandage.  "Ain'  yo'  pappy  heah? 
Ain'  he  said  de  Lawd  gwineter  pertec'  us?  An'  ain'  de 
white  man  sont  us  heah?  You  shet  up  V  go  ter  sleep," 

There  were  more  than  twenty  in  the  big  cellar  finally; 
but  the  bacon  and  greens  held  out,  and  the  ominous  riot- 
ing only  once  howled  through  the  street  just  outside. 

Long  after  the  uproar  had  quieted,  Tom  rose  reverently 
from  his  cramped  knees,  stained  by  the  lime  on  the  floor. 
"Dar  now !  Ain't  de  Lawd  done  shelter'  his  own  ?" 

"Amen,  brudder!    Amen!'' 

The  third  morning,  Gracie  came  down  with  a  lamp,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Rylan.  "It's  safe  now,"  he  announced. 
"The  police  are  at  last  keeping  order.  .  .  .  You  can 
go  home." 

"De  Lawd  bless  you,  suh,  an'  yo'  chillun  an'  all  yo' 
folkses.  De  Lawd  pertec'  you " 

He  brushed  aside  their  tearful  gratitude.  "I  was  only 
too  glad  I  had  the  chance,"  he  said  simply. 

They  stumbled  into  the  sunlight,  squinting  with  weak- 
ened eyes. 

"I  thought  I'd  die  in  dat  place,"  one  young  woman 
chattered. 

"You'd  a  died  ef  you  wuzn't  dar,"  an  older  one  cor- 
rected her. 

They  started  back  across  the  parched  fields.  One  by 
one  they  separated,  until  only  the  Coles  and  another  fam- 
ily were  left.  When  they  came  to  their  block,  a  hopeless 
depression  gripped  them.  The  packed  row  of  houses 
across  the  streeet  was  a  gray  patch  of  ashes,  where  an 
occasional  smoke-mist  still  climbed.  Their  own  house 
was  half-wrecked :  panes  broken,  furniture  hacked  wan- 
tonly, the  house  torn  and  trampled  as  if  a  cyclone  had 


176  MOUNTAIN 

driven  through  it.  Tom's  favorite  new  Bible,  given  by 
his  congregation,  his  few  gift  books,  were  wrenched  apart 
and  scattered  about  the  yard.  The  china  and  pans  had 
been  smashed.  On  the  sidewalk  was  a  charred  pile  of 
clothes;  Ed's  new  suit,  Babe's  little  pink  shoes,  one  end 
of  a  sheet  Miss'  Land  had  given  Stella  last  Christmas. 
.  .  .  Nothing  was  as  it  had  been. 

On  the  top  kitchen  shelf,  hidden  in  hoarded  news- 
papers, Tom  discovered  the  tattered  old  family  Bible  he 
had  bought  from  an  agent  just  after  the  marriage.  God 
had  protected  His  word.  .  .  . 

There  were  no  negroes  to  be  seen  on  the  street.  Babe 
gooed  uncertainly,  Diana,  who  was  only  ten,  cried  her 
tears  into  the  gingham  slip  of  the  baby  she  was  holding. 
The  boys  looked  on  in  simple  wonder,  unable  to  compre- 
hend how  things  could  change  so. 

An  old  negro  hobbled  by  on  a  stick.  "Whar's  every- 
body, Brudder  Jinkins?" 

"Mos'ly  driv'  away.  Some  done  lef  town  fer  good. 
Reckon  Ah'se  goin'  back  to  Memphis.  Dey  doan'  have 
no  riots  dar." 

"When  you  gwine?" 

"Mawnin'  train,  de  ten-ten.'* 

"We'se  gwine  too." 

Stella  listened  without  comment.  There  was  no  rea- 
son to  stay  here. 

Tom  talked  to  the  two  police  at  the  next  block.  "They 
started  to  run  away  all  the  niggers,  Uncle.  Then  they  got 
better  sense.  Who  in  hell  would  do  the  work,  if  the 
niggers  left  ?  You  don't  have  to  go  now." 

Tom  thanked  them,  and  went  on  over  to  Judge  Land's. 
Stella's  week's  wages  were  unpaid.  The  courteous  Judge, 
upset  at  this  conflict  between  the  lower  elements  of  both 
races,  did  his  best  to  change  Tom's  mind.  "Ah  gotter  go, 


THE  COLES  177 

Jedge.  Dey's  wu'thless  nigguhs  an'  po'  white  trash  ev'ry- 
where ;  but  dey  don't  have  trouble  lak  dis  ev'ry where." 

He  withdrew  from  the  bank  all  his  savings,  which  were 
deposited  with  the  church's  money,  careful  not  to  disturb 
the  congregation's  balance. 

They  reached  the  station  early.  The  Jenkins  family 
was  already  there;  they  had  been  drowsing  since  sun-up 
in  the  colored  waiting-room.  Tom  went  to  buy  the 
tickets.  Here  was  a  hitch.  The  money  would  not 
stretch  to  cover  fares  for  all  of  them  to  Memphis,  eve'n 
with  half-fares  for  the  three  oldest,  and  Babe  and  little 
Will  free. 

"You  can  get  tickets  for  Adamsville,  and  have  two  dol- 
lars left  over,"  said  the  uninterested  agent.  He  knew  the 
peculiarities  of  negro  finance. 

"Aw'  right." 

On  the  train,  the  little  Coles  and  Stella  were  squeezed 
into  one  seat ;  elder  Jenkins,  Tom,  and  two  other  traveling 
negroes  found  a  compartment  together.  The  fugitive 
preacher  was  at  once  at  home ;  he  expounded  the  African- 
ized doctrines  of  the  Baptist  faith  interminably.  "Hit's 
only  grace  what  kin  save,"  he  repeated.  "Does  de  Lawd's 
grace  dwell  in  yo'  heart?  Is  you  been  bawn  agin?" 

Finally  one  of  the  strange  negroes,  who  was  highly  im- 
pressed with  the  insistent  doctrine,  drew  out  from  Tom 
the  vague  state  of  his  plans.  "Ah'll  fin'  somethin'  to  do/' 
the  black  tongue  of  God  concluded. 

"An'  you  doan't  know  nobody  in  Adamsville?  Doan't 
you  belong  to  no  lodge,  or  nothin'?  Ain't  you  a  Risin' 
Star,  or  a  Sunshiner?" 

Tom  rubbed  a  shiny  mahogany  ear  in  earnest  reflec- 
tion. "Ah  does  belong  to  de  Sons  an'  Daughters  of  An- 
cient Galilean  Fishermen,  for  a  fack." 

"Dar  now!     Now,  nigguh,  I  knows  Adamsville,  for- 


178  MOUNTAIN 

rards  an'  back'ards.  You  git  off  at  de  Union  Depot,  den 
walk  down  to  Avenoo  C,  an'  go  east  twill  you  gits  to  de 
lodge.  'Bout  Thuhty-fo'th  Street.  Dey'll  fix  you  up." 

They  reached  the  lodge ;  its  chairs  furnished  a  place  for 
the  younger  Coles  to  munch  cold  fish  sandwiches  and  cram 
overripe  bananas,  while  Tom  went  househunting.  "Jus> 
you  walk  out  to  Joneses'  Hill,  in  West  Adamsville.  You 
kin  find  a  house,  an'  maybe  a  job  with  it."  The  business 
agent  was  full  of  suggestions. 

At  the  first  corner,  the  old  negro  considered  carefully. 
West?  .  .  .  One  horizon  appeared  an  endless  level; 
the  other  ended  in  a  gentle  hill  climbing  high  above  the 
houses  at  its  base.  "Dat  mus'  be  dis  Joneses'  Hill." 

He  walked  due  east.  On  and  on  he  plodded,  on  the 
lookout  for  the  railroad  yards  that  ran  just  below  the 
hill;  but  there  were  no  tracks  to  be  seen.  At  last  he 
struck  Highland  Boulevard,  and  then  the  slope  to  the 
mountain.  The  railroad  must  lie  beyond  it.  He  ambled 
aimlessly  up  the  long  dummy  line  to  the  breezy  gap,  then 
followed  the  curving  road  to  the  south.  There  were  no 
houses  here,  only  a  sleepy  July  woodland. 

Jays  jawed  at  him  from  towering  blackgums  and  blue- 
gums,  tiny  hedge  birds,  flushed  by  his  approach,  whirred 
noisily  into  leafy  coverts.  He  feasted  on  plump  black- 
berries pocketed  in  a  moist  hollow,  disturbing  two  quar- 
relsome chipmunks,  who  continued  to  scold  after  he  had 
passed  them.  A  homeless  cur  sidled  cautiously,  sniffed, 
was  satisfied,  joined  his  train. 

He  found  a  good  stick,  and  walked  on.  Must  be  a 
railroad  somewhere. 

He  stopped  at  last  before  a  vacant  house,  old  and  de- 
crepit, with  sagging  front  porch,  broken  panes  stuffed 
with  weathered  brown  newspapers,  a  general  air  of  run- 
downness.  Maybe  he  had  gone  the  wrong  way.  He  de- 
cided to  knock  and  ask.  He  knocked  at  the  front  door. 


THE  COLES  179 

No  answer.  He  peered  through  the  dusty,  fly-scarred 
windows.  Nothing  inside,  except  one  broken-down  bed 
and  piles  of  dusty  yellowed  papers  on  the  floor.  He 
walked  laboriously  around  the  house,  looking  in  at  each 
window.  No  one  within.  There  was  a  good  table  in  the 
kitchen,  a  rusted  stove,  an  old  clothes  basket  hanging  on 
the  wall  beside  a  broken  lantern,  a  dilapidated  splint- 
bottomed  chair.  He  came  around  to  the  front  again. 

The  shade  of  the  lonely  spreading  oak  before  the  front 
porch  was  attractive.  He  sat  down  upon  some  cushion- 
ing chigger-weed.  The  July  afternoon  wore  on ;  he  slept. 

He  woke  at  the  sound  of  feet  sending  the  gravel  fly- 
ing. A  white  man  approached. 

"Hey,  nigger,  what  you  doing  there?" 

He  got  to  his  feet,  his  hat  off.  "Ah'tn  lookin'  for 
Joneses'  Hill,  suh.  Done  los'  mah  way." 

"I  reckon  you  have !  Jones'  Hill  is  in  Wesc  Adams- 
ville,  six  miles  from  here.  Live  there?" 

"Aimin'  to." 

"Where  do  you  live  now?" 

"Ah  jus'  come  to  town,  suh.  Ain't  picked  out  mah 
house  yit." 

Nathaniel  Guild  considered  him.  Looked  like  a  re- 
spectable negro.  "You  married?" 

"Yes,  suh.  Me  'n'  mah  ole  'ooman  got  five  chillun, 
fo'  boys  an'  one  girl." 

The  white  man  looked  abstractedly  into  his  face.  "I'm 
looking  for  a  tenant  for  this  house — someone  who  can 
keep  an  eye  on  the  place,  and  do  a  little  day  work  now 
and  then." 

There  now !  Tom  had  never  doubted  for  a  moment 
that  the  Lord  would  provide.  His  tone  was  persuasively 
eager.  "Lawdy,  boss,  Ah's  jes'  de  man  you's  lookin'  for ! 
Ah  does  all  kin's  of  wu'k,  an'  mah  ole  'ooman  is  sho'  a 
powerful  cook." 


i8o  MOUNTAIN 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You  can  come  in,  for  three 
dollars  a  month  rent.  The  house  can  be  fixed  up,  and 
I'll  see  that  you  get  more  than  enough  work  to  pay  it 
off.  We  may  have  work  for  you  every  day  soon.  If 
your  wife's  a  good  cook,  Tom,  you  send  her  over  to  that 
new  house  you  see  yonder,  to  Mr.  Judson;  say  Mr. 
Guild  sent  you."  He  walked  back  through  the  gate. 
"There's  an  excellent  spring  just  at  the  bottom  here ;  and 
if  you  can  find  any  garden  truck  behind  the  house,  you're 
welcome  to  it.  There  are  some  tomatoes,  I  know,  and 
some  turnips.  If  you  want  some  seeds,  Mr.  Judson  will 
let  you  have  them.  .  .  .  Oh,  by  the  way,  here's  your 
key." 

When  these  suggestions  had  become  realities,  Stella 
was  vehement  in  her  praise  of  the  Judson  place.  "Dat 
Miss'  Mary,  now,  she's  a  sho'  'nuff  lady!  She  order 
me  'roun'  jes'  lak  Miss'  Land  useter.  Dis  is  one  gran' 
place,  Tom." 

The  children  scattered  over  the  mountain,  like  the 
hedge  rabbits  they  soon  became  acquainted  with,  and 
grew  sturdy  and  strong  from  the  pioneering.  Old  Tom 
learned  the  countryside,  and  particularly  the  negro  settle- 
ment two  miles  back  through  the  trees.  Lilydale  had  a 
thriving  Baptist  Church,  the  First  Zion,  which  com- 
peted vigorously  for  converts  with  the  Nebo  Methodist 
congregation,  two  hilly  blocks  away.  Tom  soon  became 
an  elder,  and  on  the  loss  of  the  pastor,  who  was  indicted 
as  a  murder  suspect,  the  Georgia  preacher  naturally  suc- 
ceeded to  his  place.  On  weekdays  Tom  found  himself 
in  daily  demand,  as  Hillcrest  Subdivision  expanded  and 
developed.  Even  Ed,  the  oldest  of  his  boys,  found  work 
for  his  strong  sixteen-year  muscles  in  the  road-making. 
Jim  and  Will  went  to  the  city  school,  while  Diana  tended 
Babe,  to  let  Stella  cook  for  the  Judsons. 

Tom's  keen  instinct  soon  located  the  isolated  hen  roosts 


THE  COLES  181 

in  the  valley,  and  the  more  unprotected  ones  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  Surely  the  Lord's  anointed  deserved 
chicken. 

With  the  knowledge  that  a  chicken  dinner  awaited  him 
on  his  return,  his  Sunday  sermons  gained  unction  and 
elegance.  He  was  regarded  as  the  most  powerful  dis- 
puter  in  this  section  of  the  valley,  and  his  exhortations 
always  secured  a  big  turnout  for  the  baptizing  in  Shadow 
Creek. 

He  felt  welded  to  the  mountain.  He  was  caretaker 
of  the  whole  estate,  and  lord  of  his  half  of  it.  He  felt 
superior  to  the  mere  Lilydale  negroes,  even  those  who 
owned  their  own  homes ;  it  was  more  to  be  good  enough 
to  live  near  Mister  Judson.  As  for  the  Adamsville 
negroes,  his  scorn  for  them  boiled  over  weekly  in  his 
sermon.  "Them  crap-shootin',  rum-soppin'  Scratch- 
Ankle  nigguhs "  The  self-righteous  congregation 

shivered  delightedly  as  he  pictured  the  sure  hell-fire  for 
the  modern  "Sodom-'n'-Gomorry." 

Life  had  evidently  provided  a  firm  and  pleasant  rou- 
tine for  this  wandering  apostle  of  the  Lord. 


XVI 

TOM  COLE  shifted  his  left  leg  from  its  cramped 
under  position,  replacing  it  over  the  right.  He  was 
careful  not  to  let  his  heel  scrape  the  shiny  painted  floor 
of  the  outer  office  of  the  Snell-Judson  Real  Estate  and 
Development  Company;  white  folks  were  particular 
about  scratches.  He  had  been  waiting  since  eight-thirty 
for  Mr.  Judson  to  come  in  from  the  mountain;  it  was 
now  after  ten.  It  wasn't  his  fault  if  Mr.  Judson  was 
late.  He  hadn't  done  anything  to  deserve  what  Mr. 
Judson  had  said  a  week  ago  come  next  Friday,  that 
waiting  was  the  best  thing  he  did. 

He  considered  a  patch  once  neatly  covering  the  left 
knee  with  owlish  deliberation.  "My  ole  'ooman's  a 
powerful  patcher,"  he  told  Peter,  the  gap  watchman, 
when  the  mend  was  new.  "Say  she  gonter  patch  mah 
britches  wid  shoe  leather,  she  do." 

That  was  a  long  time  ago;  the  patch  had  bulged  out 
on  one  side,  and  torn  loose.  He  picked  carefully  at  the 
frayed  gap,  widening  it.  Maybe  Mr.  Judson  would 
notice  it — it  was  about  time  he  got  that  brown  suit  the 
boss  wore  around  the  garden  in  the  morning. 

He  brought  his  mind  back  with  an  effort  to  what  he 
had  come  for.  He  went  over  the  figures  again,  painfully 
printed  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  picked  from  the 
kitchen  trash-basket.  He  rehearsed  carefully  what  he 
would  have  to  say.  It  wouldn't  be  hard  to  get  that  thirty- 
five  dollars.  Maybe  he  ought  to  ask  for  forty,  or  forty- 
five;  that  would  leave  something  for  himself  and  Stella. 

182 


THE  COLES 

He'd  have  to  try,  some  day,  to  get  more  out  of  Miss' 
Mary  for  the  First  Zion  Church.  The  organ  money  was 
overdue;  and  there  was  a  second-hand  red  carpet  at 
Geohegan's  that  would  just  fit  the  Sunday  School  room. 

He  snorted  aloud,  to  the  amazement  of  the  stenog- 
rapher busily  at  work  in  the  corner.  Shaking  her  head, 
she  returned  to  her  machine.  .  .  .  That  Scales  Green  and 
the  'coon  dog  he  wanted  to  sell,  at  church  last  Sunday! 
Wanted  two  dollars  for  an  old  yellow  pup  that  looked 
like  he'd  only  chase  cows.  Probably  picked  him  up ;  the 
dog  ought  to  be  in  the  pound.  Maybe  he  stole  him.  That 
was  a  nice  'coon  dog  that  storekeeper  Carr  haNd;  there 
was  one  just  like  him  running  around  the  Ellis  Dairy 
below  the  Thirty-Eighth  Street  road.  If  he  caught  that 
dog  roaming  around  Mr.  Judson's  place,  he'd  show  them ! 
Anyhow,  Pup  and  Whitey  were  good  'cooners,  he  didn't 
need  any  more.  You  had  to  feed  dogs  somehow. 

He  mustn't  forget  about  the  cow-feed,  or  the  saddle. 

Paul  Judson  walked  briskly  in,  an  aster  blue-purple 
against  the  soft  gray  lapel.  "Hello,  Tom,  you  here?  I 
thought  you  were  to  prune  those  forsythias  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Miss'  Mary  done  tole  me  to  go  by  Dexter's  an'  have 
de  side-saddle  fixed,  suh.  One  of  de  sturrup  strops  is 
broke.  Ah  had  to  come  in  for  cow-feed  an'  oats." 

"Get  an  order  from  Miss  Simpson  for  the  feed.  And 
drive  by  the  Union  Depot  on  your  way  out;  there's  a 
box  of  fruit  trees  to  set  out  on  the  hill  across  the  gap." 

He  passed  into  the  inside  offices. 

When  he  crossed  over  to  the  title  room,  half  an  hour 
later,  Tom  still  sat  in  the  same  place,  the  top  rim  of  the 
folded  order  showing  neatly  above  the  sweat-band  in  the 
cap  on  the  negro's  lap.  "Still  here?" 

Tom  rose  awkwardly,  puffing  out  his  lips  in  uncer- 


184  MOUNTAIN 

tainty.  "There  wuz  sump'n  else  Ah  wanted  to  see  you 
'bout,  suh." 

"Well?" 

"Ah  wanted  to  ax  a  favor,  Mr.  Judson." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Ah  wondered  ef  you  could  spare  me  a  loan,  suh? 
Make  an  edvance?" 

"What  do  you  want  it  for?" 

The  crumpled  cap  fell  to  the  floor;  Tom  stooped  and 
picked  it  up.  "We  done  decided  to  sen'  Diana  to  de 
Tuskegee  school,  suh.  You  got  some  of  mah  money ;  an' 
Ah's  been  savin'  till  Ah's  got  thuhteen  dollars.  She  kin 
wu'k  out  in  Tuskegee,  an'  make  mos'  of  her  'spenses. 
She's  goin'  to  take  millinery." 

"How  much  do  you  need  ?" 

"Thuhty-five  dollars,  suh.  Dat's  for  de  fu'st  year. 
She'll  hatter  go  two  years." 

Paul  considered  the  matter ;  a  sigh  of  irritation  escaped 
him.  Higher  education  for  negroes  might  be  a  good 
thing,  in  some  cases;  it  was  usually  a  waste  of  time. 
There  was  something  wrong  with  the  idea  of  it ;  a  serving 
class  ought,  naturally,  to  remain  uneducated.  Education 
had  a  tendency  to  stir  up  unrest.  Negroes  who  knew 
too  much  might  seem  respectful,  but  there  was  a  sus- 
picious glibness  about  them  that  warned  that  they  had 
acquired  something  which,  if  it  became  formidable  or 
wide-spread,  might  question  the  social  framework  on 
which  Adamsville  and  the  South  were  built.  Still,  Diana 
seemed  a  hard-working  girl;  it  might  do  no  harm. 

"All  right.  Whenever  she's  ready  to  go,  you  can  have 
the  money." 

"Thank  you  so  kin'ly,  suh.  Ah'll  pay  back  every 
cent " 

"Don't  forget  those  fruit  trees,  Tom." 

While  Diana  was  finishing  her  first  year,  Tom's  pros- 


THE  COLES  185 

parity  became  too  much  for  him.  He  had  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  plump  Wyandotte  pullets  at  the  Ellis  Dairy,  the 
same  place  that  had  lost  a  prized  possum  dog  six  months 
before.  There  was  an  eight-foot  fence,  with  two  feet 
of  barbed  wire  at  the  top;  and  he  knew  that  the  Ellis 
boys  had  guns,  and  used  them.  But  the  chicken  runs 
were  behind  the  cow  barns,  and  thus  hidden  from  the 
house;  and  he  had  discovered  an  opening  under  the 
rear  of  the  fence,  where  a  mere  trickle  remained  of 
the  roystering  April  freshet.  This  gap  was  protected 
only  by  stakes  angled  inward  from  within  the  fence; 
and  the  moist  ground  allowed  the  central  three  to  be 
worked  up  with  ease. 

He  chose  a  May  night,  moonless  and  peaceful.  It  was 
almost  one  o'clock  when  he  made  his  wet  way  under  the 
fence,  and  followed  the  chicken-wire  to  the  roosts.  His 
fumbling  fingers  found  the  staple  which  held  the  lock 
chain.  He  pulled  his  hammer  out  of  one  of  the  "croker 
sacks,"  inserted  the  claw  and  pulled.  It  was  hard  in 
starting,  then  came  easily;  only  the  last  pull  resulted  in 
a  subdued  and  nerve-wracking  screech  as  the  metal  curved 
out  of  the  hard  wood.  He  let  the  heated  staple  down 
quietly,  and  opened  the  door.  The  hens  kept  up  a 
sleepy  clutter;  now  was  the  time  to  use  all  his  skill  and 
tact. 

He  moved  his  hand  from  the  wall  along  the  pole,  until 
it  collided  with  the  first  warm  feathers.  His  mind  wan- 
dered to  a  memory  of  a  night  when  he  had  seen  an  owl 
steal  one  of  Mr.  Judson's  prized  game  hens.  The  thief 
had  settled  on  a  tree  limb  occupied  by  the  hen,  and 
gradually  commenced  shoving.  The  hen  sleepily  gave 
way.  As  she  came  to  the  end  of  the  lopped-off  limb, 
she  had  fallen,  and  the  bird  of  prey  had  caught  her 
before  she  reached  the  ground.  Then  Tom  had  fired, 
.  .  .  Good  thing  nobody  was  watching  him! 


186  MOUNTAIN 

There  was  a  smothered  gurgle  as  his  fingers  closed 
around  the  neck.  Deftly  he  twisted  the  head  until  the 
bones  gave,  then  slipped  it  into  the  bag.  Another,  and 
another — the  fowls  had  increased  their  drowsy  disturb- 
ance, but  were  not  yet  alarmed. 

He  got  two  more,  then  decided  that  he  had  enough. 
No  need  to  be  a  hog  about  it. 

He  started  back  for  the  door;  his  knee  hit  a  feeding 
trough  with  a  sudden  crack.  The  noise  was  not  great; 
but  at  the  same  moment  a  voice  rang  out,  "Come  out, 
nigger,  I've  got  the  door  covered.  Come  out,  or  I'll 
shoot  hell  out  of  you." 

Lordie,  lordie !  No  use  lying  low ;  there  was  no  other 
door  to  the  henhouse,  and  if  he  waited  until  morning, 
he  was  caught  sure. 

"All  right,  suh,  Ah's  comin'." 

He  slid  open  the  door  a  trifle;  the  light  of  a  lantern 
lit  on  the  ground  cut  its  way  in.  "No  tricks,  now.  Drop 
whatever  you've  got,  and  come  out  with  your  hands  in 
the  air — or  I'll  blow  your  head  off." 

"Ah  ain't  doin'  no  tricks,  boss.  Doan'  shoot,  for  de 
Lawd's  sake!" 

"Come  on,  or "  came  another  voice. 

He  slid  fearfully  out,  his  arms  raised.  He  stood 
blinking  in  the  sudden  shine. 

From  his  left  two  figures  closed  in,  shotguns  half 
raised.  "Just  one  old  nigger,  Ned;  we'll  phone  the  con- 
stable and  turn  him  over." 

"Lawdie,  lawdie !  Doan'  give  me  to  no  constable ;  Ah 
ain't  done  nuthin !" 

"How  many  chickens  did  you  get,  you  black " 

Tom  spoke  volubly.  "Ah  thought  dis  was  Mr.  Joneses' 
roos',  cap'n,  an'  he  said  Ah  could  come  in  some  night 
an' " 


THE  COLES  187 

"Why,  I  know  that  nigger.  Didn't  you  bring  in  Mr. 
Judson's  Jersey  last  month  for  service?" 

"Yessuh,  dat  Ah  did.  Ah's  a  minister  of  de  gospel, 
an'  ef  Ah's  made  a  little  mistake  tonight,  Ah'll  swear 
ter  Gawd  never  to " 

"Bring  him  along." 

"Lawd,  boss,  doan'  send  me  to  jail.  Dey'll  give 
me  five  years.  Let  me  go  dis  time,  .  .  .  Ah  won't 
never " 

"Come  on " 

Ah's  a  minister  of  de  gospel,  suh,  an'  ef  Ah's  ar- 
rested, what  will  mah  flock  think?  Ef  you  lets  me 
go " 

"How  many  hens  did  you  get?" 

"Fo',  suh;  fo'  or  five." 

"I'll  give  you  four  or  five  seconds  to  get  out  of  here. 
And  you  leave  Adamsville,  do  you  hear  me?  We  know 
you.  We're  too  busy  to  waste  time  around  the  criminal 
court.  But  I  warn  you,  get  out !  If  I  catch  you  around 
this  town  again,  I'll  have  Judge  Hawkes  send  you  up 
for  ten  years.  Git!" 

"De  Lawd  will  reward  you,  suh,  for " 

He  raised  the  shotgun  suggestively.  "Three  seconds 
left.  Git!" 

Minus  cap  and  bags,  Tom  "got" — stumbling  into  the 
brook  ditch  on  his  face,  then  hurrying  up  the  stream, 
and  running  blindly  through  the  woods  to  the  road,  and 
so  to  the  mountain.  He  sat  down  at  last  on  the  crest, 
a  stitch  wracking  his  side. 

What  chance  did  he  have,  with  the  Ellis  boys  after  him 
with  shotguns?  Maybe  he  could  lie  low  for  a  while; 
keep  on  the  mountain,  until  the  shotguns'  energetic 
memories  had  turned  to  other  things.  He  shuffled  along 
the  outcrop,  then  turned  in  to  avoid  the  cactus  that 
punctuated  the  hillock  before  Locust  Hedge. 


i88  MOUNTAIN 

Mammy  Stella  was  waiting  for  him.  "Get  them 
hens?" 

"Ah  got  hell,  Stella.  Ah  gotter  clear  out  er  Adams- 
ville ;  dem  Ellis  boys  done  said  so." 

"Whar  you  gwine?"  Her  marital  suspicion  strength- 
ened his  resolve;  a  holiday  from  home  had  its  advan- 
tages. 

"Ah  'lowed  Ah'd  walk  down  ter  Hazelton  'r  Coalstock. 
Ah  could  get  somethin'  to  do  'roun'  de  rollin'  mill." 

"What  de  chu'ch  gonter  do?" 

"Brudder  Adams  he  kin  preachify  tell  Ah  comes  back." 

"Why  'n'  cher  stay  here?" 

"An'  git  shot?" 

She  dismissed  him,  in  the  limp  dawn,  with  wifely  so- 
licitude. "Don'  cher  be  up  to  no  tricks,  Tom,  or  Ah  'low 
Ah'll  pull  all  yer  wool  out  when  Ah  git  hoi'  of  you." 

"You'll  see  me  when  you  see  me,  ole'  'ooman."  And 
he  was  gone. 

One  warm  morning  in  the  April  following,  the  Judsons' 
watchman  and  man-of -all- work,  Peter,  hesitated  before 
his  mistress,  a  barrow  of  uprooted  poison-ivy  poised  in 
the  grip  of  sturdy  old  hands,  which  were  immune  from 
the  noxious  irritation.  "Ah  done  got  a  letter  f  'um  Tom 
Cole,  Miss'  Mary." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"He's  dead." 

"You  got  a  letter  from  him?" 

"No'm;  it  was  f'um  de  man  he  wu'ked  for,  in  Coal- 
stock.  Died  Chuesday  las'  week,  de  letter  said.  Dey 
buried  him.  Ah  done  tol'  Stella." 

"That's  too  bad,  Peter.  I'll  have  to  speak  to  Stella." 
Her  heart  went  out  to  the  black  woman,  who  had  lost 
her  husband ;  what  if  it  had  been  Paul !  She  determined 
to  turn  over  to  the  widow  an  old  black  silk  that  she  had 
noticed  the  wrinkled  eyes  coveting. 


THE  COLES  189 

The  gift  was  lavishly  appreciated. 

"Thank  'ee,  thank  'ee,  Miss'  Mary.  Ah'm  gwineter 
fix  it  up  wid  puhple — it'll  make  a  gran'  mo'nin'  dress!" 

"You  didn't  go  to  the  funeral?" 

"Ah  ain't  got  no  time  to  waste  on  no  funerals,  Miss' 
Mary,  'less  dey's  closer'n  Coalstock." 

Jim,  the  second  boy,  joined  Ed  in  work  upon  the 
mountain ;  Will  and  Babe  continued  at  school,  although 
Stella  grumbled  about  a  sixteen-year-old  negro  bother- 
ing with  books,  when  a  job  was  handy. 

Diana  arrived  home  the  last  of  May.  The  whole 
family  surrounded  her  admiringly,  as  she  hung  the 
framed  diploma  on  the  sitting-room  wall. 

"Hit's  beautiful,"  Stella  said  simply,  as  the  daughter 
pointed  out  the  school  buildings  in  the  half-tone  oval  in 
the  center. 

There  was  no  opening,  however,  for  a  negro  milliner  in 
Adamsville.  Tired  with  the  futile  search  for  work  pre- 
pared for  by  her  education,  she  replaced  Stella  in  the 
Judson  kitchen,  to  allow  the  elder  woman  the  greater 
freedom  which  "washin' "  permitted.  With  the  coming 
of  the  clearing  gangs,  Will  joined  his  two  brothers  at  the 
work,  leaving  only  fourteen-year-old  Babe  at  school. 
Even  he  longed  for  the  jingle  of  pay-day  wealth  in  his 
overalls.  One  day  he  announced  at  home  that  Mr. 
Hewin  had  taken  him  on  as  a  helper.  "Three  dollars  a 
week,  maw.  What  good  is  school,  anyway?" 

Then  began  a  new  period  in  the  life  of  the  Cole  boys. 
The  mountain  had  taken  them  to  its  red  bosom;  the 
lesson  of  isolated  self-reliance  which  it  had  taught  to 
Pelham  Judson  came  in  parallel  form  to  them.  They 
were  a  gang,  four  strong,  which  could  cope  with  any 
equal  number  of  Lilydale  negroes,  or  Scratch  Ankle  or 
Buzzard  Roost  rock-throwers.  If  a  larger  number  got 


190  MOUNTAIN 

after  them,  there  was  the  mountain  they  could  retreat  to; 
its  rocky  reinforcement  and  refuge  furnished  safety. 

Stella  scolded  them  sharply  on  the  night  when  they 
had  fought  the  Harlan  Avenue  white  boys.  "Let  them 
Lilydale  niggers  fool  wid  white  trash,  ef  dey  wants  to. 
De  Judsons  is  quality,  don't  you  fergit;  you  let  dat 
white  trash  be.  Fight  wid  you'  own  kind.  Ef  a  white 
man  gin  you  any  trouble,  you  let  Marster  Judson  fix 
'im." 

The  lesson  sank  in.  They  were  quality  negroes,  lords 
of  the  mountain  domain.  Stocky  Jim  was  the  champion 
rough-and-tumble  fighter  of  the  Zion  Church.  "Ah  kin 
lick  any  three  Neboes  wid  mah  toes  an'  teeth,"  he  would 
boast  in  religious  snobbery.  Tom  had  had  one  of  Mr. 
Judson's  shotguns,  to  warn  off  marauders;  the  care  of 
this  descended  to  Ed,  as  the  oldest,  and  the  boys  took 
turns  in  potting  rabbits,  flickers,  and  an  occasional  par- 
tridge, with  shells  borrowed  from  the  big  house.  First 
choice  of  the  game  went  to  the  Judson  table;  but  there 
was  enough  left  to  fill  out  the  scanty  Cole  menu  of 
corn-pone,  sow-belly,  molasses,  and  a  seasonal  mess  of 
greens. 

The  boys  practiced  hurling  outcrop  boulders  at  the 
big-trunked  oaks  until  they  could  skin  the  bark  four 
times  out  of  five  at  fifty  feet.  The  outdoor  life,  the 
clearing  work,  the  continual  "toting"  of  water  from  the 
icy  spring  in  balanced  buckets,  toughened  them  into  ex- 
uberant manhood.  They  did  not  marry,  although  Stella 
constantly  scolded  the  older  pair  for  "hangin'  'roun'  dem 
Avenoo  C  skirts" ;  and  their  wider  rambles  added  grass- 
ripened  watermelons  and  plump  chickens  to  the  fare. 

Diana,  alone  of  the  family,  found  life  on  the  mountain 
bleakly  unhappy.  She  possessed  a  frightened,  dusky 
beauty.  Adolescence  had  changed  her  from  a  gawky 
immaturity  to  a  lush  roundness,  large-lipped  and  full- 


THE  COLES  191 

figured,  and  yet  with  the  well  moulded  face  and  the  soft 
brown  texture  of  skin  that  are  occasionally  found  in  a 
mixture  of  blood.  From  some  Aryan  ancestor  she  had 
inherited  features  the  reverse  of  negroid;  and  she  re- 
vealed nothing  of  the  unpleasant  pertness  often  devel- 
oped in  the  twilight  realm  where  black  and  white  inter- 
mingle. 

The  liberating  touch  of  education  had  been  just  potent 
enough  to  dissatisfy  her  with  the  old,  and  too  weak  to 
furnish  a  self-sufficient  substitute.  The  world  of  books 
she  had  begun  to  explore  at  Tuskegee ;  there  was  no  one 
in  the  family  group  who  could  go  with  her  in  the  talk 
or  the  dreamings  that  this  led  to.  The  haphazard  home 
life,  the  thick  enunciation,  worse  at  meal  times,  these 
were  the  things  she  had  begun  to  get  away  from;  she 
could  not  reconcile  herself  to  the  old  slough  of  "nigger" 
life. 

The  church  gave  her  some  outlet.  She  joined  the 
various  Ladies'  Aids,  took  over  an  advanced  Sunday 
School  class,  wheedled  different  ones  of  her  night-rest- 
less brothers  to  escort  her  to  the  Zion  sociables,  the 
chitterling  suppers,  the  frequent  revivals.  But  here  an 
obstacle  lay  in  the  women  of  the  congregation.  No  new- 
fangled notions  for  them,  thank  you.  They  considered 
her  careful  accent,  her  ideas  borrowed  from  more  pro- 
gressive members  of  her  race,  an  affront  to  Lilydale's 
time-hallowed  way  of  doing  things;  she  was  shouldered 
into  the  background.  The  few  educated  negro  men, 
Wyatt  the  druggist,  Tom  Strickland,  who  owned  the 
five-story  building  in  the  city,  the  young  lawyer  who 
lived  in  Lilydale,  were  married,  or  were  disagreeable. 
They  found  in  her  only  a  desire  for  expanding  culture, 
not  its  achievement;  they  did  not  seek  her  out. 

The  isolation  frequently  overcame  her.  Nauseated 
by  the  glut  of  the  slipshod  home  living,  she  would  pull 


192  MOUNTAIN 

open  one  of  her  text  books  .  .  .  often  to  sit  and  cry, 
unable  to  read  a  line. 

"You're  gettin'  peaked,  Diany,"  Stella  worried.  "Hue- 
come  you  ain't  so  pert  as  when  you  come  back?  .  .  . 
You  got  a  good  job." 

"I'm  all  right,  mother." 

One  night  she  overheard  the  older  boys  fussing  at 
Babe.  "You  too  little,  kid.  Ef  a  cop  started  chasin' 
you,  yo'  short  legs  wouldn't  do  no  good." 

"Ah  kin  run  faster  'n  you,  Ed.  An'  'Banjo'  said  Ah 
could  come  along,"  he  whined.  "Maw,  tell  Ed  'n'  Will 
'n'  Jim  not  to  leave  me  behin'." 

"Where  are  you  boys  going?"  asked  Diana. 

Ed  fidgeted  sourly.     "Aw,  nowhar." 

"Ah'll  tell  you,"  said  Will  boastingly.  "Coin'  to  de 
Union  Depot,  to  see  what  we  kin  pick  up." 

"Mother,  will  you  let  yo'  boys  rob  cars?" 

"Shut  up,  won't  you?"  Ed  injected  savagely. 

Stella  looked  helpless.  "You  boys  '11  be  careful,  won't 
you?  Yo'  pappy  got  caught.  .  .  .  Babe's  too  little." 

"You  know  that  that  'Banjo'  Strickland  is  a  regular 
criminal,  ma — even  his  brother  Tom  says  so." 

Stella  closed  her  mouth.  "Dey  kin  look  after  dey- 
selves,  Ah  reckon.  Dey's  growed  up." 

To  belong  to  a  family  of  day-laborers  and  common 
thieves !  In  passionate  rebellion  she  told  herself  that 
it  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

For  several  days  she  studied  the  poison  labels  in  the 
Judson  medicine  chest.  If  she  only  knew  which  would 
be  painless.  .  .  . 

She  picked  her  dark  way,  a  few  nights  later,  over  the 
rough  planking  across  the  nearest  ramp — the  excavating 
had  begun,  which  meant  better  pay  for  the  boys,  and  a 
mountain  full  of  white  and  negro  workers.  The  chill 
breathing  of  the  Autumn  wind  drove  her  limp  calico 


THE  COLES  193 

skirts  swirling  around  her  body.  As  she  entered  the 
darker  tree-shadows  beyond,  she  stopped  suddenly,  a 
chiller  fear  shaking  her.  A  dark  figure  stood  squarely 
in  front,  a  figure  that  made  no  motion  of  stepping  out  of 
her  way. 

"Where  you  goin',  nigger?" 

He  was  one  of  the  men  she  had  seen  working,  a 
slouching  young  fellow — a  white  man. 

"Home,"  she  said,  in  a  roughened  voice. 

She  endeavored  to  brush  past  on  the  lower  side  of 
the  pathway;  the  sheer  cut  of  the  hill  obstructed  the 
upper. 

He  put  out  a  friendly  hand,  catching  her  arm  in  rude 
assertiveness.  "Not  so  fast.  You're  the  Cole  gal,  ain't 
you?" 

"I'm  Diana  Cole.     I'm  going  home." 

Her  tone  trailed  off  weakly,  as  he  stepped  closer.  She 
could  see  his  face  now,  uncertain  eyes  squinting  directly 
at  her. 

"Hey,  good-looker,"  he  dropped  to  an  ingratiating 
whisper,  with  a  leer  to  increase  the  effectiveness  of  his 
words.  "What  you  say — wanter  show  me  a  bit  of  good 
time?  What  you  say?" 

She  tried  to  shake  herself  free.  "Let  me  go!  Don't 
dare  touch  me " 

"Don't  say  dare,"  Jim  Hewin  said  warmly,  his  left 
hand  sliding  appraisingly  up  the  bared  softness  of  her 
right  arm.  "Plump,  eh?  Nice  piece  of  dark  meat.  I 
like  you;  I'll  treat  you  right." 

A  gust  of  sudden  fright,  the  blind  fright  of  the  female 
when  her  well-ordered  maiden  state  is  first  threatened, 
shook  over  her;  her  arm  lashed  out  impotently. 

He  stepped  aside  to  avoid  the  blow. 

"If  you  touch  me.  ...  I'll  kill  you.  .  .  ."  Her 
words  were  gasps. 


194  MOUNTAIN 

He  held  her  arms  again,  pushing  them  behind  her  until 
her  face  was  close  before  his.  "You  black  devil !  I've 
a  mind  to " 

Then  he  pulled  her  closer,  fastening  his  dry  lips 
against  her  protesting  mouth.  For  a  hushed  second  she 
took  the  unexpected  caress  quiescently;  then  fought, 
kicked,  scratched,  to  get  away.  He  held  her  firmly, 
shaking  her  until  she  ceased.  Then  he  let  her  go. 

She  ran  a  few  frightened  steps,  then  turned  in  the 
dusky  safety,  facing  him.  Her  mind  held  only  an  out- 
raged hate ;  her  feelings  quivered  and  rioted  in  disquiet- 
ing turmoil. 

He  smacked  his  lips  broadly. 

"You — -you  white  trash " 

He  faced  her  coldly.  "When  I  want  you," — whistling, 
as  though  calling  a  dog,  he  turned  up  toward  the  crest — 
"you'll  come.  ..." 

Her  heart  panting  in  wrenching  excitement,  she 
listened  to  his  retreating  steps.  She  stared,  helplessly 
rooted  in  the  accusing  silence.  Her  knees  trembled ;  she 
waited  to  regain  strength. 

Then  she  moved  heavily  toward  the  house,  entering 
by  the  rickety  kitchen  steps  in  the  rear. 

With  a  child's  helpless  seeking,  she  walked  down  the 
hall.  She  must  tell  her  mother  at  once.  She  heard 
Stella's  rocker  moving  monotonously  on  the  sagging 
front  porch.  A  loose  board  squeaked  in  soothing  rhythm. 

Sharply  she  visualized  the  simple,  wrinkled  face.  .  .  . 
It  could  never  understand.  .  .  . 

She  turned  wearily  into  her  own  room,  and  threw  her- 
self face  downward  on  the  bed.  The  loud  pounding  of 
her  heart  frightened  her;  she  turned  upon  her  back, 
staring  at  the  constricted  darkness  of  the  blank  ceiling. 


XVII 

AN  old  negro,  his  sleep-wrinkled,  shiny  coat  and  paint- 
stained  overalls  itchy  from  stubble  acquired  in  a 
deserted  barn,  idled  down  the  switching  track  that  ran 
behind  the  Judson  lands.  His  scrubby  gray  beard  was 
stained  with  blackberries;  his  knees  were  gritty  and 
dank  from  kneeling  beside  the  brook  that  slipped  over 
the  quartz  ledges  beside  Billygoat  Hill.  In  doubtful 
cogitation  he  knocked  cinder  and  chert  clusters  down  the 
steep  fills,  swinging  his  hickory  stick  with  an  air  of 
ancient  mastery. 

"Lawd  bless  me,  look  at  dem  long  houses!"  as  he 
passed  the  lower  end  of  Hewintown. 

A  white  man  eyed  him  closely,  a  short  man  with  a 
tarnished  metal  badge  on  his  ore-stained  coat. 

"Got  any  wu'k?" 

The  guard  relit  his  pipe.    "Too  old,  nigger." 

"I  kin  tote  a  powerful  lot." 

The  guard  continued  to  stare  off  at  Shadow  Mountain. 
Whistling  good  naturedly,  the  old  man  continued  down 
the  track.  "New  houses!  New  fences!  Things  mus' 
be  lookin'  up !" 

He  observed  the  path  that  led  to  the  crest  just  east  of 
Hillcrest  Cottage,  and  took  instead  the  steep  descent  to 
the  spring  lot.  He  sniffed  at  the  well-placed  garden 
truck,  noticed  the  ducks  and  the  shiny  duck  house,  skirted 
the  widened,  concrete  swimming  pool,  and  came  at  last 
past  the  game  house  to  the  spring.  From  the  tin  dipper 
swinging  on  the  twenty-penny  nail  he  took  a  drink,  first 

195 


196  MOUNTAIN 

clearing  out  his  mouth  several  times  and  spitting  the 
warmed  water  into  the  spillway. 

He  looked  furtively  around,  up  toward  the  big  estate, 
then  along  the  path  to  the  eastern  crest.  He  took  up  the 
two  buckets  empty  on  a  concrete  pump  base,  rilled  them 
three-quarters,  balanced  them,  and  made  his  careful  way 
up  the  latter  path. 

When  he  reached  the  top,  he  skirted  the  ramshackle 
house.  At  the  back  he  paused  at  the  two  half-barrel  tubs 
redolent  with  laundry  soap.  He  stooped  over  it,  pouring 
in  the  first  big  bucket. 

A  heavy  voice  rang  from  the  kitchen  above  him.  "Hey, 
nigger,  what  you  doin'?" 

He  turned  a  puzzled  face  toward  the  window.  "Ah'm 
__Ah'm " 

A  big  roundish  woman  stepped  out  on  the  rickety 
porch.  "Fuh  Gawd's  sake!  Is  you  Tom?" 

"Sho'  Ah  is."  There  was  an  aggrieved  whine  in  his 
voice. 

"You  come  back?    Whar  you  been?" 

He  emptied  the  bucket,  and  brought  the  other  to  the 
bench  under  the  back  steps.  "Ah  been  wu'kin'.  Ah 
come  back." 

"We  done  got  a  letter  sayin'  you  wuz  dead." 

He  laughed  broadly.     "Ah  ain't." 

Tramping  up  the  steps,  he  flung  his  wrinkled  coat  on 
its  old  nail  above  the  lanterns,  and  sat  down  in  a  splint- 
bottomed  chair,  testing  it  carefully  before  he  leaned  back 
in  it.  "Got  any  breakfas',  ole  'ooman?  Ah's  plumb 
starvin'." 

She  set  out  cold  bacon,  cold  pone,  a  glass  molasses 
pitcher  with  its  top  broken.  "He'p  yo'se'f,  Tom.  Ah's 
powerful  glad  you's  home." 

He  spoke  through  a  mouthful  of  bread  and  "long 
sweetening."  "Ain't  married  agin,  or  nuthin'?" 


THE  COLES  197 

"Ah  ain't  huntin'  no  mo'  trouble." 

She  slid  his  emptied  dishes  into  the  loaded  sink,  and 
took  up  the  two  empty  clothes  baskets.  "Come  he'p  me 
tote  de  clo'es  back.  Miss'  Mary  mebbe  got  somethin 
for  you  to  do." 

At  supper,  the  biggest  kerosene  lamp  was  lit  on  the 
middle  of  the  table,  and  spread  its  smelly  radiance  over 
the  reunited  family.  Ed  and  Jim  had  come  in  last,  their 
cap-lamps  still  lit,  their  shirts  clayey  from  the  under- 
ground work.  "Here's  yo'  pappy,  boys,  come  back  agin," 
announced  Stella  proudly. 

Diana,  her  nerves  on  edge  from  another  meeting  with 
Jim  Hewin,  got  in  a  side  blow.  "I  suppose  you've  been 
with  that  'Banjo'  Strickland  again,  and  couldn't  get  home 
in  time  for  supper?" 

"Aw,  close  yer  trap,"  growled  Ed.  "Think  you  own 
the  place!" 

"Yer  maw  says  you  boys  is  wu'kin'  hard." 

Will,  who  possessed  a  good-natured  sense  of  humor, 
chuckled  appreciatively.  "We  sho'  is!  You  know  dat 
chicken-farm  by  de  dam  on  Shadow  Mountain,  paw? 
We  been  wu'kin'  powerful  hard,  an'  dat's  de  Lawd's 
trufe !" 

"We  got  fried  chicken  fo'  supper,  Tom,"  as  Stella 
lifted  the  simmering  pan  with  feigned  indifference. 

"An'  dey  ain't  grow  on  no  egg-plants,  an'  dat's  a  fack," 
continued  Will. 

"You'd  a  come  in  handy,  paw,  las'  Sad'dy  night,"  said 
Ed,  who  had  recovered  from  his  temporary  ill-humor  at 
Diana.  "Ev'rybody's  lef  de  place  'cep'  club-foot  Jake 
Simmons;  dey  lef  him  to  watch.  Me  'n'  Banjo  he'p'd 
him  watch;  we  played  poker,  while  de  three  boys  poked 
off  thuhteen  hens  an'  a  cockerel." 

"And  that  isn't  all  that  you  all  and  'Banjo'  'poke  off,' 
either,"  interrupted  Diana,  her  light  brown  face  glowing 


198  MOUNTAIN 

a  shade  darker.  "What  would  yo'  paw  say  if  I  told  him 
all  I  know?" 

"What's  dis?  What's  dis?"  His  explosive  tones 
regained  something  of  the  former  authority. 

Stella  laughed  comfortably.  "Nuthin'  at  all,  Tom. 
Diana  got  a  fool  notion  dat  de  boys  been  meddlin'  wid 
cars  at  de  Union  Depot;  dat's  all." 

Tom  scratched  his  head  in  profound  silence;  the  rest 
of  the  family  watched  him  with  differing  emotions.  At 
length  he  spoke  unctuously.  "De  Lawd  he  put  chicken- 
roos'eses  an'  melon-patches  whar  dey  is  easy  to  get  at; 
it  ain't  nacheral  for  a  nigger  to  let  a  hen  suffer  dis  vale 
of  tribulation,  or  let  a  melon  grow  ole  an'  useless  on  de 
vine.  Cars  is  different.  Cars  is  different.  You  boys 
ain't  got  kotched  at  nothin'?" 

"You  bet  we  ain't!" 

"Den  Ah  don't  know  nothin',  an'  Diana  don't  know 
nothin'.  You'd  better  watch  out,  dat's  all  Ah  say.  Cala- 
boose never  wuz  no  black  man's  frien'." 

"We's  careful,  paw.     We  got  regular  jobs." 

"Dat's  all  Ah  say.  Bring  out  mah  Bible,  Babe;  Ah 
ain't  read  de  Scripchers  for  two  years." 

"We  done  jined  de  union,  paw,"  said  Babe,  laying  the 
shaggy-eared  family  Bible  in  the  yellow  circle  of  lamp 
light.  "De  miners'  union." 

"A  lot  you  all  know  about  unions!"  sniffed  Diana. 

Tom  nodded  reverently.  "Unions  is  good.  Ah  am  de 
resurrection  an'  de  life,  says  de  Lawd.  De  Lawd  done 
sont  unions  to  he'p  his  cullud  chillun." 

"An'  Jim's  de  finansher  secretary.    He  gits  de  money." 

"Dat's  good  too.  You  boys  is  hustlers,  lak  yo'  ole 
paw  was." 

The  Cole  life  went  on  as  if  he  had  never  been  away. 

Some  weeks  later,  Stella  Cole  had  just  straightened  up 
from  the  half-barrel  tubs,  to  wring  a  soggy  batch  of 


THE  COLES  199 

towels  before  "renchin' "  them  in  the  clearer  water, 
when  she  looked  up  with  that  uncanny  premonition  of 
danger  which  lower  animals  and  lower  races  possess. 
The  ground  shivered;  then  a  hideous  noise  broke  over 
the  sunned  and  silent  trees,  deafening  her.  The  vast 
growl  of  the  dynamite  explosion  rang  shrilly  in  her 
ears ;  she  fell  on  trembling  knees,  praying. 

The  crash  of  falling  timbers  behind  made  her  look 
around.  The  unsteady  ground,  she  said  afterwards, 
"shook  lak  you  wuz  shakin'  a  counterpane."  The  rickety 
step  supports  crumpled,  the  rotted  square  of  the  back 
porch  crashed  in  on  the  bench  of  water-buckets  below. 

There  was  a  droning  noise  in  the  air,  the  sound  of 
running  steps  along  the  road  passing  above  the  house. 
Toward  the  farther  mines,  beyond  her  house  and  'the 
next  hill,  she  saw  a  palpable  haze,  smoke-like  and  yet 
not  smoke,  dulling  the  sky. 

"Mah  boys!"  she  gasped,  and  started  running  puffily 
for  the  front  gate,  and  the  road  beyond. 

She  stood  aside  to  let  a  screeching  machine  throb  past 
her.  It  was  Mr.  Pelham ;  the  sight  of  his  tense  and  col- 
lected gaze  reassured  her.  Mr.  Pelham  wouldn't  let 
anything  happen  to  her  boys. 

She  shrank  into  the  outer  fringe  of  the  tear-eyed,  wail- 
ing Hewintown  women,  trying  desperately  to  get  some 
news.  She  wandered  twice  into  the  thick  air  at  the  top 
of  the  ramp,  but  the  acrid  heaviness  drove  her  back. 
The  men  she  spoke  to  cursed,  shoving  her  aside.  She 
slumped  to  the  ground,  moaning  in  inarticulate  misery. 
Lord,  they  were  all  dead ! 

Then  she  saw  Ed  running  with  an  empty  bucket,  his 
head  bandaged,  his  face  grimed  and  ferocious.  "Ed! 
Eddie!  Whar's  Babe,  an'  Jim,  an'  Will- 
He  stopped,  coughing,  gasping.  "Jim's  killed,  ma.  Dey 
brung  out  his  body.  Hit's  yonder  under  dem  trees.  .  .  . 


200  MOUNTAIN 

Babe's  all  right;  ain't  seed  Will.  Mebbe  he's  caved  in." 
He  hurried  off,  face  set  and  purposeful. 

"Mah  Jim!  Mah  Jim!"  She  pulled  her  trembling 
body  from  the  ground,  and  set  off  on  unsteady  feet  to- 
ward the  ominous  trees. 

The  body  was  not  there.  "You  might  look  in  the 
Company  stores,  in  Hewintown,"  said  a  sweet  voiced 
girl,  her  face  torn  with  sympathy. 

"Thank  'ee,  ma'am."  She  stumbled  weakly  off,  her 
uncovered  head  dizzy  from  the  excitement  and  the  sun. 
Her  lips  repeated  over  and  over,  "Mah  Will!  Mah 
Jim !" 

The  sudden  dark  of  the  storeroom  clouded  her  vision. 
From  body  to  body  she  went.  Here  were  the  negroes. 
This  bloodied  face  was  like —  No.  She  went  on. 

At  length  she  found  what  she  sought.  Weak  from 
exhaustion  and  shock,  she  crumpled  up  beside  the  limp 
warmness  that  had  been  her  second  son. 

Here  Diana  found  her,  a  Diana  pale  and  frightened, 
her  right  arm  bandaged  to  the  shoulder,  blood  caked  in 
dusky  crimson  at  the  height  of  her  breast.  "Mother! 
Is  this.  .  .  .  Jim?" 

Stella  raised  herself  drowsily.  "Yeh,  dis  is  Jim." 
She  looked  at  the  girl  fearfully,  a  vague  horror  chan- 
nelling her  face.  "Is  Will  daid  too  ?" 

"Will's  all  right.  .  .  .  You  come  home  with  me." 

Stella  faced  the  girl  when  they  were  outside.  "Will 
all  right?  Babe  all  right?" 

Diana  nodded. 

"What's  wrong  wid  yo'  arm,  girl?" 

"Nothin'.    A  pane  of  glass  scratched  it.    It's  all  right." 

Jim's  funeral,  the  Sunday  following,  was  a  notable 
affair.  A  committee  of  fellow-members  from  the  union 
marched  first.  The  ornately  resetted  Brethren  of  the 


THE  COLES  201 

Morning  Star,  and  the  proud  ranks  of  the  Sons  and 
Daughters  of  Ancient  Galilean  Fishermen,  came  next. 
Last  were  the  comfortably  filled  livery  carriages,  fur- 
nished by  the  lodges  as  the  proper  foil  for  their  flam- 
boyant officers.  Stella  brought  out  her  old  black  silk, 
in  sorrow  and  pride.  Tom's  successor,  Brother  Adams, 
preached  the  funeral  sermon.  "God  moves  in  a  myste- 
rious way  His  wonders  to  perform,"  was  the  burden  of 
sermon  and  song.  There  was  no  suggestion  among  the 
elder  heads  that  the  devil,  or  the  Birrell-Florence-Moun- 
tain  Mining  Company,  had  had  a  hand  in  this  particular 
wonder,  this  harvest  of  dumb  death. 

Tom,  busied  with  funeral  sermons  for  other  victims, 
received  gratefully  the  benefits  from  the  two  lodges. 
"Ain't  dar  nothin'  f'um  dat  union  Jim  set  sech  store 
on?" 

"Unions  don't  have  benefits,  paw.  We  gwine  ter  git 
our  benefit  strikin',"  explained  Will  painfully. 

"Lots  of  use  dey  are,  den!  Whuffur  you  belong  to 
su'thin'  what  ain't  got  no  benefits?" 

Diana  and  Stella  sided  with  the  father,  but  the  boys 
were  determined.  "Dey  say  de  comp'ny  ain't  gwine  pay 
no  damages  for  killin'  de  miners.  We  gwine  strike  an' 
make  'em  pay!"  insisted  Will. 

"We  gotter  git  money  somehow,  ain't  we?"  said  Ed, 
grouchily. 

"Dat's  foolishness,"  argued  Tom.  "How  you  think 
you  gwinter  make  white  folks  do  what  dey  don't  want 
to,  huh?  Dis  union  business  is  foolishness." 

The  unusual  excitement  of  several  sermons  a  day 
brought  on  an  attack  of  Tom's  old  sickness.  At  Paul 
Judson's  suggestion,  he  walked  himself  over,  one  boiling 
afternoon,  to  the  free  ward  of  the  "horse-pittle." 

Less  than  two  weeks  after  his  limping  departure,  old 


202  MOUNTAIN 

Peter  accosted  Mary  Judson  respectfully,  as  she  stepped 
into  her  electric  at  the  side  door  of  Hillcrest.  "Ole  Tom 
Cole's  done  for  dis  time,  Miss'  Mary." 

"Yes,  Peter?    Are  you  sure?" 

"Dey  cut  him  open  in  de  horse-pittle,  an'  he's  dead 
sho'.  A  nigger  what  wu'k  dar  done  tol'  me." 

Stella  was  close-lipped  about  the  matter.  "Dey  do  say 
he  is  daid  dis  time,  Miss'  Mary.  Too  much  preachin' 
ain't  nacheral." 

Diana  saw,  for  the  fourth  time,  the  slouching  figure 
in  the  dusk  of  the  mountain  roadway,  as  she  returned 
that  night  from  the  big  house.  She  came  up  to  him  with 
certainty,  by  now  used  to  the  mixed  menace  of  his 
presence.  "What  are  you  hangin'  around  me  for,  Jim 
Hewin?" 

"You  know  what  I  want,  brown  baby.  Aw,  don't  be 
so  damn'  stingy!" 

He  took  her  familiarly  by  her  dusky,  well-rounded 
arm ;  she  shook  him  off  petulantly.  "I've  told  you — 

He  held  the  arm  more  confidently.  "You  ain't  in  no 
hurry.  We'll  walk  up  a  piece " 

Her  feet  retarded,  as  he  turned  up  the  stubby  grass- 
rugged  path.  He  pulled  her  after  him  with  a  low 
chuckle  of  insolent  arrogance. 

Her  tones  were  more  docile,  soberly  argumentative. 
"Why  don't  you  go  to  your  white  girl?  You  told  me 
you  were  going  to  get  married " 

"She  kin  wait." 

They  were  deep  in  the  obscurity  of  the  oak  thicket 
now;  the  path  was  cherty,  grassless.  She  walked  easily 
in  front  of  him,  then  stopped  in  the  topmost  shadow,  as 
the  murky  panorama  of  the  night  city  opened  before 
them.  She  stood  wrapped  in  the  dusky  wonder  of  a 
sky  stained  with  echoes  of  furnace  fire,  a  dun  horizon 
broken  with  twinkling  patterns  of  streets  and  avenues. 


THE  COLES  203 

Around  her  waist  he  coiled  a  determined  arm;  in  her 
he  saw  the  beauty  that  she  found  in  the  broken  mystery 
below. 

"Let's  sit  down." 

Gathering  her  skirts  close,  she  sat  on  the  dry  grass, 
shrinking  slightly  from  his  touch.  He  let  her  have  her 
fill  of  the  shining  moment;  but  his  hand  continued  its 
gentle  stroking  along  her  arm,  her  shoulders,  the  soft 
curve  of  her  neck. 

A  subtle  riot  shivered  out  of  nowhere  into  her  emo- 
tions, an  agonizing  quiver  so  sweet  that  it  must  be 
wicked.  Her  distressed  face  besought  his,  "Don't,  don't, 
Jim " 

He  did  not  answer ;  nor  did  he  stop.  A  wild  pagan  stir 
whipped  her  blood,  giving  the  blasphemous  counsel  that 
she  should  throw  herself  into  his  arms.  It  was  the  prox- 
imity of  the  male  calling  to  his  mate;  it  was  more — it 
was  the  answering  tremor  of  the  woman  of  a  lower, 
darker  race,  the  mountain  wildness  dominant  in  her 
blood,  when  chosen  by  the  man  of  the  higher,  lighter 
strain. 

The  stern  Puritanism  of  her  training  fought  against 
this.  She  must  save  herself  whole  for  a  man  of  her 
own  color;  she  thought  of  the  negro  poet's  magnificent 
lines  about  the  black  Mary,  who  was  to  bring  forth  the 
black  Messiah  to  lead  his  brethren  out  of  bondage.  .  .  . 

"Gimme  your  lips,  honey." 

She  pulled  back,  trembling,  from  the  dominant  triumph 
in  his  voice.  His  arm  swept  tightly  around  her,  she 
was  dragged  against  him.  Her  weakness  melted  to 
nothing  in  the  presence  of  this  mighty  outer  and  inner 
strength. 

Slowly  she  felt  herself  losing.  Her  prisoned  hands 
struck  out  feebly  against  his  face;  yet  even  in  her  fight- 
ing she  fancied  that  the  man  whose  face  was  hidden  in 


204  MOUNTAIN 

the  night  before  her  was  not  the  repulsive,  leering  mine 
foreman,  but  the  dim  white  knight  of  her  hid  dreamings. 

With  startling  suddenness  she  yielded  to  his  com- 
mand. His  lips  fastened  to  hers,  clung  there.  She  felt 
that  the  whole  universe  became  a  kiss;  melted,  eddied 
together  into  one  point  of  mad  moist  contact.  Her 
struggles  to  free  her  lips  drew  her  closer  to  him.  She 
was  conscious  of  his  hot  hand  pressing  against  her  body, 
burning  through  the  thin  calico  waist.  Then  she  lost 
consciousness  of  bewildering  details. 

With  rude  courtesy  Jim  Hewin  steadied  her  feet  as 
she  walked  down  the  last  sharp  slope  to  the  road. 

He  turned  to  leave;  an  arm  detained  him.  Her  tones 
were  low  and  pleadingly  sweet.  "A  good  night  one, 
now." 

Head  bowed,  tired  blood  pounding,  she  slipped  with 
furtive  haste  toward  the  darkened  windows  of  the  shack 
that  was  her  home. 


IV 
THE  CLASH 


XVIII 

J[M  HEWIN  picked  his  satisfied  way  over  the  ramp's 
top  and  along  the  road  below,  toward  the  gap  and 
the  gap  offices.     He  eyed  the  midnight  stars  with  un- 
seeing animal  contentment,  sluggishly  at  peace  with  the 
world. 

A  voice  from  the  watchman's  hut  blurred  upon  his 
hearing.  "Hey,  where  you  going?"  The  man  peered 
closer.  "Where  the  hell  have  you  been?  The  old  man's 
been  looking  for  hours " 

"I  been  right  over  in  Hewintown." 

"He  wants  you,  now." 

"What's  up?"  Reawakened  briskness  bristled  in  his 
tones. 

"Bringing  in  them  carloads  of  miners." 

"Oh!" 

"He's  in  the  guard  auto  by  the  machine  house.  Better 
hump  yourself." 

Jim  idled  off,  then  changed  his  gait  to  a  run  as  he 
heard  the  preliminary  whirr  of  the  engine.  "Hai!"  he 
shouted,  as  the  lighted  nose  turned  up  the  hill.  "Hai! 
Wait!  It's  Jim!" 

Tom  Hewin  made  room  for  him  on  the  front  seat. 
"Take  this  rifle.  Got  your  automatic?" 

They  joined  the  three  other  cars,  ran  on  too  far  by 
the  viaduct,  and  doubled  back.  The  thin  pop  of  fire- 
arms reached  them,  then  the  distant  crackle  of  a  volley. 
The  men  hunched  together  excitedly,  blood  tingling  at 
the  prospective  ambuscade  of  the  man-hunt. 

207 


208  MOUNTAIN 

The  wash  of  the  headlight  on  the  tall  pines  beyond 
the  cut  located  the  engine. 

"There !"  came  Tom's  stabbing  whisper. 

The  cars  coursed  to  the  curve,  and  turned  parallel, 
facing  the  tracks.  The  angry  glare  of  four  searchlights 
burned  against  the  black  figures  huddled  above  the  stalled 
train. 

The  startled  crowd  eddied  together,  then  scattered  in 
headlong  panic.  Gunfire  thunder  and  pelting  lead  poured 
from  the  rows  of  rifles  toward  the  fleeing  bodies. 

Jim  sprang  out,  crouched  beside  the  searchlight,  blazed 
away.  He  ran  forward,  stumbling  against  a  pungently 
resinous  stump.  He  rested  his  rifle  on  it  to  aim.  Crack ! 
The  clumsy  figure  halted,  raised  wild  arms  grotesquely, 
fell  spinning  toward  him.  He  caught  up  with  the  fore- 
most guards,  and  stood  with  them  for  a  volley  across 
the  narrow  railroad  gulch. 

"Come  on,"  boomed  Huggins,  the  deputy  sheriff  in 
charge,  running  to  the  top  of  the  cut. 

Jim  followed. 

A  wounded  miner  on  the  left  trembled  to  his  knees ;  his 
pistol  aimed  uncertainly  at  the  man  ahead.  Jim's  auto- 
matic plupped;  the  man's  face  butted  against  the  rocky 
ground. 

"Hey,  there,"  Huggins  bellowed,  "Whatcher  stop  for?" 

"We're  goin'  on,"  a  gunman  below  shouted  back. 
"We're  goin'  on,  I  say." 

"Go  on,  then,"  he  replied,  disgustedly. 

"Don'cher  hear  him,  Ed?"  to  the  engineer.  "Go  on, 
he  says." 

"Ain't  I  going?" 

The  whistle  wailed  against  the  sky,  the  gunmen  piled 
on  cowcatcher  and  carsteps.  The  train  choked  labori- 
ously up  toward  the  company  depot  at  Hewintown. 


THE  CLASH  209 

"None  left,"  said  Tom  reflectively,  joining  Huggins  on 
the  crest. 

"A  few,"  the  other  grinned  casually,  his  arm  indicat- 
ing the  awkward  blotches  against  the  searchlit  hillside. 
"Go  back,"  he  called  to  another  deputy,  "phone  from  the 
gap  for  a  truck  to  carry  them  stiffs  to  the  main  office. 
It's  been  a  morgue  afore." 

The  shaken  eight  in  the  shadows  beyond  the  fill  saw 
all  of  it.  Dawson  kept  his  hand  beside  Wilson.  "No 
you  don't,"  as  the  hothead  raised  the  pistol  again,  when 
the  train  coughed  its  way  toward  them.  "Wanter  make 
us  all  swing?" 

"We  could  manage  a  get-away " 

Dawson  pushed  him  into  the  car;  the  rest  crawled  in, 
sobered,  sorrowing,  fiercely  resentful. 

"God !    What  a  story !"  whispered  Brant,  the  reporter. 

Jensen's  big  voice  shook  tearfully.  "Shot  'em  down 
like  rats,  the  black-hearted  bastards!  If  I'd  a  gun " 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  the  big  organizer  savagely, 
squeezed  beside  the  silent  son  of  Paul  Judson.  "You 
can't  lick  'em  that  way.  It's  the  last  thing.  .  .  .  They'd 
call  out  their  soldiers — where'd  we  be  then?  Oh  hell! 
If  we  can  just  hold  all  the  boys  together,  we  can  make 
'em  come  crawlin'  to  us ' 

"Can  you  ?"  whispered  Pelham. 

"I  ...  don't  .  .  .  know,"  an  answer  as  low.  "We'll 
try." 

Brant  dropped  off  to  catch  the  last  edition  of  his  paper ; 
the  others,  for  their  various  home  car-lines.  Only  McGue 
accompanied  Dawson  to  the  Mecca,  to  sleep  armed  be- 
side him.  Pelham  noticed  the  gray  warning  of  day- 
break staining  the  east,  before  he  pulled  down  his  shade 
and  adjusted  his  splitting  head  on  the  chill  pillow,  to 
writhe  through  somber  dreams. 


210  MOUNTAIN 

The  careless  truckmen,  satisfied  with  their  load  of 
thirteen,  overlooked  the  black  body  hurriedly  flung 
against  the  ties  of  the  switch  track.  It  was  one  of  the 
Lilydale  children,  berrying  in  the  early  grayness,  whose 
frightened  tongue  brought  Stella  the  answer  to  her  long 
night  of  uncertainty. 

The  other  Cole  boys  had  gone  oil  to  work,  sure  that 
Babe  would  turn  up  somehow.  .  .  .  Stella  got  a  man 
from  the  Judson  stable  to  help  her  carry  over  the  dewed 
body  on  an  empty  barrow. 

Babe's  funeral  was  simple.  "Suffer  little  chillun  tuh 
come  untuh  me,"  said  Brother  Adams  unctuously,  "fuh 
ob  sech  is  de  Kingdom  ob  Hebb'n."  A  second  fresh 
earth  mound  disturbed  the  irregularity  of  the  Zion  Ceme- 
tery meadow,  with  the  name  "Cole"  painted  on  the 
scantling  driven  beyond  the  head. 

This  first-hand  contact  with  the  bloody  struggle  made 
Pelham  hurl  himself  with  dynamic  energy  into  the 
strikers'  cause.  Dawson  used  him  to  make  the  Board 
of  Trade  endorse  the  conflict.  Flaring  headlines  in  the 
Advertiser  and  the  Times-Dispatch  warned  of  a  general 
strike,  which  would  tie  up  the  whole  industrial  machinery 
of  Adamsville. 

"They'll  never  do  it,"  Dawson  repeated  pessimistically. 
"We  can't  dislodge  that  Pooley  bunch.  But  this  hot  air 
helps." 

The  young  mining  inspector,  as  yet  unassigned  to  his 
duty  by  the  State,  preached  organization  to  the  miners 
of  Coalstock,  Hazelton,  Irondale,  and  Belle  Mary  mines  ; 
he  never  failed  to  wind  up  with  a  stirring  appeal  for 
unity  on  the  political  as  well  as  the  industrial  field. 
"Strike  at  your  jobs,  when  you  must ;  strike  at  the  polls 
every  chance  you  get!  Let's  drive  the  scabs  out  of  the 
city  hall,  out  of  the  sheriff's  office,  out  of  the  legislature ! 


THE  CLASH  211 

The  government  isn't  going  to  leave  you  alone ;  why  not 
make  it  your  government  ?" 

In  hardened  Democratic  ears  the  brilliant  insistence 
made  little  impression,  although  mining  locals  sprouted 
and  flourished. 

"He  don't  do  any  harm,"  Dawson  confided  to  John 
McGue  who  had  attached  himself  as  the  big  man's  private 
guard.  "Let  him  spit  fire  if  he  wants  to.  My  God,  man ! 
A  state  mining  inspector  as  organizer !  We'll  have  Paul 
Judson  in  the  local  yet !" 

Sullenly  the  strikers  held  to  their  Hewintown  homes, 
cowed  by  the  armed  guards  from  interfering  with  the 
spasmodic  attempts  of  the  convicts,  negroes,  and  strike- 
breakers to  keep  the  mine  product  up  to  normal.  Formal 
notices  of  eviction  came  to  them;  but  Ben  Spencer  reas- 
sured the  disheartened  committee.  "They've  got  to  fol- 
low the  state  law;  that  means  delay.  Tell  the  boys  to 
sit  steady  till  hell  freezes  over.  They're  sewed  up." 

Henry  Tuttle  rendered  an  exhaustive  report  upon  the 
same  matter  to  the  managing  committee  of  the  directors. 
"We  can  go  ahead,  if  you  say " 

Paul  Judson,  at  Judge  Florence's  nod,  shook  his  de- 
cisive head.  "Wait.  We're  not  quite  ready.  When  we 
are " 

After  a  thoughtful  pause,  the  vice-president  went  on. 
"It's  a  good  time  to  appropriate  enough  to  outfit  the 
State  National  Guard.  We  can't  pay  them  directly,  as 
the  companies  did  in  Colorado;  the  law's  against  that, 
Henry?" 

The  counsel  nodded  corroboration. 

"But  they'll  appreciate  new  uniforms  and  guns.  .  .  . 
You  can  never  tell,  you  know.  ...  I  had  a  talk  with 
Adjutant-General  Rice  last  week;  he  approves  heartily." 

The  matter  was  left  to  the  vice-president,  for  action. 


212  MOUNTAIN 

During  these  weeks  of  comparative  inactivity,  in  spite 
of  the  details  of  strike  work,  Pelham  found  time  to  de- 
bate "Socialism  the  Remedy"  with  Burke  Horton,  an 
energetic  lawyer-politician  of  near-radical  views.  The 
debate  was  the  first  of  a  newly  opened  community  forum, 
under  the  auspices  of  Dr.  Gulley's  Free  Congregation, 
which  met  in  Edlin's  Hall.  The  crowd  was  packed  with 
Horton's  followers,  but  the  young  Judson  made  his  points 
tell. 

This  was  one  of  the  meetings  to  which  Jane  Lauder- 
dale  could  go;  she  had  followed  every  motion  of  Pel- 
ham's  with  her  large,  intimate  eyes,  from  a  wall  seat  to 
the  right,  not  far  from  the  platform.  Continually  his 
own  eyes  sought  hers,  to  test  the  effectiveness  of  an  argu- 
ment, or  to  draw  approbation  and  inspiration  frcm  the 
source  that  meant  most  to  him.  Whenever  there  had 
been  opportunity,  she  had  been  in  his  strike  audiences, 
a  vivid,  sparkling  fountain  of  encouragement  and  en- 
thusiasm. Pelham's  watchfulness  drew  from  his  ran- 
dom hearers  antagonism  or  sympathy,  a  groping  for  his 
meaning,  a  tardy  stumbling  after  his  flying  feet;  of  her 
he  drank  cordial  understanding  and  abounding  love. 

They  left  the  hall  together,  and  rode  straight  to  her 
house.  Lacking  a  home  of  their  own,  this  house  fur- 
nished an  abiding-place  for  far-flung  dreams  and  precious 
intimacies. 

In  her  very  restfulness  he  found  a  spur  and  a  stimulus. 
Chin  cupped  in  her  down-turned  fingers,  seated  in  her 
favorite  wicker  chair,  she  mused  above  him,  as  he 
slouched  on  the  rug  at  her  feet. 

"You  were  splendid  tonight,  boy;  you're  a  cannibal 
at  debating." 

"I'd  be  sick  of  the  whole  bloody  business,"  she  smiled 
indulgently,  "if  it  wasn't  for  you." 


THE  CLASH 


213 


"Anyone  would  do  just  as  well;"  a  denying  finger 
caressed  his  hair  possessively. 

"Am  I  that  unappreciative,  Joan  of  Lauderdale?" 

"Now  you're  poking  fun.  You  don't  deserve  the 
taffy." 

"It  was  only  taffy?" 

"I'm  a  good  cook,  you'll  have  to  admit.  No;  you 
earned  every  word.  I  should  think  your  father  would 
have  to  be  proud  of  you !" 

"The  oratorical  prodigal  .  .  .  whose  far  country  is 
the  heaven  your  slim  oxfords  print." 

"Not  even  wings?" 

"We  are  forging  them  together." 

Hearty  delights  these  hours  with  the  vibrant  girl  al- 
ways were;  but  they  were  not  as  heady  and  intoxicating 
as  he  had  imagined  love  would  be.  Perhaps  too  heady, 
in  another  sense ;  there  was  a  lack  somewhere,  he  medi- 
tated ruefully,  as  his  car  picked  its  way  past  the  guarded 
entrances  to  the  entrenched  mountain.  A  prodigal  son,  he 
had  called  himself;  but  this  was  one  of  those  itching 
hours  when  he  envied  the  erotic  mire  of  the  earlier 
vagrant.  His  body  hungered  morbidly  for  the  barely 
sampled  flesh  pots  of  the  Meade  bungalow,  the  perilous 
soilure  of  Butler's  Avenue. 

Night's  dead  peacefulness  was  the  only  reality.  The 
moon  froze  ramp  building  and  sagging  shack  into  silver 
immobility ;  there  could  be  no  hour  when  bleeding  forms 
lurched  and  died  on  this  eternal  background.  Day's 
conflicts  were  shadowy  impossibility;  he  could  not  take 
further  part  in  the  fantastic  strife  that  meant  death  and 
suffering;  he  was  caught  in  the  midnight  spell  of  the 
silent  world. 

But  a  gush  of  warm-blooded  hatred  welled  over  him — 
hatred  that  turned  this  silver  heaven  into  an  iron-red  hell. 


214  MOUNTAIN 

No ;  he  was  pledged  fighter  in  the  cause  of  the  mountain 
that  must  be  all  men's.  He  was  vaguely  aware  that  this 
reborn  fealty  came  from  two  mothering,  radiant  eyes, 
that  watched  his  steps  in  light  and  darkness,  and  waited 
with  shadowy  arms  to  welcome  him  at  war's  end. 

The  morning's  headlines  obtruded  on  Paul  Judson's 
attention,  at  his  usual  early  breakfast.  They  caused  no 
lightening  of  his  accustomed  frown.  Uncertainly  he 
fumed  around  the  place.  When  he  saw  Pelham  about 
to  start  for  the  city,  he  walked  over  and  intercepted  him. 

"Your  car  woke  us  up  at  three  last  night." 

"It  was  shortly  after  two  when  I  got  here." 

"You'll  agree  with  me  that  such  hours  are  a  bad  in- 
fluence on  the  boys.  Your  mother  and  I  go  to  bed  at 
ten.  I  can't  have  it." 

Pelham  did  not  answer,  an  ugly  surge  of  anger  up- 
boiling  within  him. 

"It  won't  do  for  Hollis  and  Ned.  It  isn't  decent. 
They're  bound  to  imagine  you  are  keeping  bad  company 
— of  both  sexes " 

The  wrath  boiled  over.  "Father !  You  know  I've  been 
busy  speaking — last  night  was  the  debate — you  know  I've 
been  busy " 

His  father's  mouth  closed  to  a  thin  line,  then  opened. 
"I  can't  have  it.  They  don't  know  what  you  do  with 
your  time ;  I  am  glad  of  that.  You'll  have  to  leave  the 
mountain." 

Pelham  stood  his  ground  against  the  menacing  stare. 
"I  shall  be  glad  to."  There  was  a  blank  wrench  of 
anguish  within  him,  at  the  thought  of  leaving  the  familiar 
home;  the  mere  difficulties  of  moving  and  settling  again 
loomed  mountain-high.  "Your  suggestion  that  I  am  go- 
ing with  bad  companions  is  trash,  and  you  know  it."  He 
hesitated,  then  drove  on.  "I'll  leave  by  Saturday." 

Paul  turned  away.    "It  will  be  a  good  thing." 


THE  CLASH  215 

His  soul  stinging  with  the  father's  injustice,  he  waited 
until  the  other  had  gone  in  leisurely  certainty  down  the 
hill,  and  went  in  to  his  mother.  "I'm  to  leave  the  moun- 
tain next  Saturday,  mother." 

"It's  necessary,  Pelham.  You  have  distressed  your 
father  in  so  many  ways,  I  cannot  see  anything  else  for 
you  to  do." 

Hurt  pride  spoke  within  him.  "He  said  my  late  hours 
set  a  bad  example  for  the  boys." 

"Yes  .  .  .  that  too.  .  .  ." 

The  words  crowded  out.  "He  said  that  I  was  late  be- 
cause I  was  going  with  bad  companions,  when  he  knows 
that's  a  lie!" 

"Pelham,  you  shall  not  speak  that  way  of  your  father 
to  me." 

"Mother,  you  know  I've  been  at  meetings  and  debates ; 
you  know  how  straight  I've  been.  If  he'd  had  his  way, 
I  wouldn't  have  been,"  he  added  with  heated  significance. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  The  unrehearsed  query  came 
against  her  will. 

"When  I  was  visiting  at  the  Meades,  he  advised  me  to 
go  to  Butler's  Avenue,  mother — to  go  to  the  Red  Light 
district — to  go  to  the  women  there.  That  was  his  fatherly 
advice  to  me!" 

Her  face  assumed  a  Puritanic  severity,  an  alien  look; 
she  masked  the  tumult  of  her  heart  with  this  outward 
symbol  of  incredulity.  "I  cannot  believe  you,  Pelham." 

This  was  not  the  first  occasion  in  which  he  had  de- 
tected Mary's  mobile  features  solidified  into  a  harsh  and 
unreasoning  insensibility  to  fact.  Whenever  he  or  one 
of  the  other  children  had  cornered  the  mother  into  a 
situation  demanding  condemnation  of  Paul,  this  self- 
gorgonized  expression  hardened  upon  her ;  it  hid  any  ad- 
mission of  surprise,  any  criticism  of  the  husband,  for 
the  moment.  And  he  had  observed  that  it  served  a 


216  MOUNTAIN 

second  function — persisted  in,  it  gave  time  for  the  breach 
in  the  confidence  in  Paul  to  heal  without  apparent  scar; 
henceforth  she  seemed  to  live  in  the  self-imposed  de- 
lusion that  her  husband  had  never  been  at  fault.  She 
would  have  held  as  a  model  wife  the  Red  Queen,  who 
had  trained  herself  to  believe  six  impossible  things — 
presumably  to  her  royal  husband's  advantage — before 
each  breakfast. 

Pelham  had  come  to  despise  this  obvious  scouting  of 
reality,  this  sentimentalizing  which  called  facts  what  it 
would  have  them,  not  what  they  were.  He  retorted 
rather  sharply,  "There's  no  use  not  believing  me.  You 
know  I  am  not  lying ;  those  were  my  father's  words." 

The  smug  overcast  of  unbelief  became  glacial;  in 
serene  security  in  her  husband's  impeccability,  no  matter 
what  the  facts  might  be,  she  turned  toward  the  house. 
"I  do  not  wish  to  have  you  discuss  the  matter  any 
further."  Then,  a  softer  look  in  her  eyes,  she  came 
back  to  where  the  son  stood,  and  slipped  an  arm  around 
his  shoulder.  "I'm  doing  this  for  your  own  best  inter- 
est, mother's  dearest  boy;  just  as  your  father  has  decided 
in  his  wisdom  that  the  time  has  come  when  you  must 
leave  the  cottage." 

There  was  a  preliminary  catch  in  her  voice,  affection- 
ate, affecting,  and  not  consciously  affected.  "God  only 
knows,  my  son,  how  much  I  love  you.  .  .  ."  She  did 
not  say  any  more,  as  if  with  a  moment's  clarity  of  insight 
she  doubted  the  appropriateness  of  the  inevitable  formula. 
She  threw  a  half-puzzled  glance  at  him,  that  seemed 
rather  to  survey  herself  through  him,  as  she  left  off 
talking,  passed  up  the  steps,  and  through  the  screen 
door — for  all  the  world  as  if  to  screen  herself  further 
from  his,  and  perhaps  her  own,  searching  scrutiny. 

Well,  that  was  ended.  Pelham  prepared  to  move.  He 
found  a  vacant  room  with  Mrs.  Hernandez,  wife  of  a 


THE  CLASH  217 

comrade.  The  outlook  on  symmetrical  suburban  homes, 
in  a  cheap  section  near  the  mountain's  foot,  was  far 
different  from  the  rolling  vistas  he  had  been  so  fond  of ; 
but  at  least  his  books  and  Sheff  pictures  reminded  of  the 
old  place. 

Jim  Hewin,  whose  attentions  to  Diana  continued,  al- 
though without  his  first  impetuous  insistence,  questioned 
the  girl  about  the  matter  on  one  of  their  infrequent 
meetings  under  the  dumb  oaks  on  the  crest.  "Young 
Judson  left  home?" 

"Last  week." 

"Squabbled  with  his  old  man?" 

"I  reckon  so.  ...  He  just  left."  She  continued 
listlessly  to  stare  at  the  burning  breath  of  the  far  fur- 
naces. 

At  length  her  moping  could  not  be  ignored.  "What's 
the  matter,  gal  ?  What's  on  your  mind  ?"  He  tried  lightly 
to  shake  her  out  of  her  melancholy. 

She  responded  weakly  to  his  clumsy  friendliness,  her 
tongue  locked  as  to  its  real  trouble.  She  had  come  to- 
night to  tell  him;  it  seemed  so  easy,  as  she  went  over 
the  matter  in  the  cleared  kitchen,  waiting  for  the  supper 
preparations  to  begin.  She  must  tell  him;  he  was  en- 
titled to  know. 

And  now  an  icy  self-disgust  tied  her.  This  man  at  her 
side — what  could  it  mean  to  him,  but  a  new  peg  for  his 
obscene  jokes?  She  had  gone  into  this  thing,  at  the  last, 
willingly ;  she  must  see  it  through.  It  was  not  for  him  to 
guess  at  the  faint  unstirring  life  which  her  mad  yielding 
had  summoned  within  her. 

She  pretended  to  meet  his  mood,  and  left  him  sure  that 
she  had  "got  out  of  her  spell."  She  cried  herself  and 
her  hidden  secret  to  sleep. 

A  spirit  of  lassitude  lay  over  the  mountain  activities, 
with  the  departure  of  Pelham  and  the  cumulative  effect 


218  MOUNTAIN 

of  drenched  days  of  torrid  July  sunshine.  The  dusty 
mornings  were  dry  and  crackly,  the  sullen  summer  air 
clung  within  the  house  at  night.  Futile  breezes  spurted 
uncertainly,  emphasizing  the  arid  discomfort.  Twice 
thunder  clouds  massed  over  the  nervous  swelter,  but 
were  swept  on  before  they  could  spill  their  desired  com- 
fort. Dust-weighted  leaves  hung  limp,  shrubs  sickened 
and  browned;  only  the  weeds  pushed  blatantly  upward. 

Paul  came  out  early  the  second  day  of  the  spell.  The 
weight  of  the  weather  was  unbearable.  It  was  as  if 
heavy  blankets  of  heat  were  continually  drifting  down 
from  the  blazing  heaven,  too  piercingly  hot  to  be  drowsy ; 
it  was  as  if  he  walked  through  these  thick  palpable 
layers  of  living,  seering  fire  .  .  .  like  walking  undersea 
of  a  vast  liquid  ocean  of  seething  heat. 

"You'd  better  get  out  of  this,"  he  announced  shortly 
to  Mary.  "How  would  the  Thousand  Islands  do?  ... 
The  girls,  and  Ned  too;  his  school  doesn't  open  till  late 
in  September.  Hollis  had  better  stay  with  me;  I  need 
some  help.  .  .  .  Shall  I  make  reservations  for  Tues- 
day?" 

Paul  took  Hollis  with  him,  ten  days  later,  for  a  run 
up  to  Washington  connected  with  the  delivery  of  steel  to 
supply  Allied  orders,  a  mission  in  which  all  of  his  driving 
sympathies  were  enlisted.  Nor  was  he  out  of  key  with 
his  home  city  in  this.  Adamsville  was  one  of  the  few 
Southern  cities  whose  sympathies  had  been  against  the 
Central  Powers  from  the  beginning  of  the  war.  For  the 
first  two  years  the  rest  of  the  South  fussed  and  thundered 
against  English  interference  with  the  profitable  pre-war 
cotton  trade  with  Germany;  an  anti-English  "freedom  of 
the  seas"  became  the  day's  slogan  in  the  one  section  of 
the  country  where  English  blood  still  predominated.  But 
the  iron  city  never  joined  in  this  clamor;  its  spokesmen, 
its  suave  senators  and  publicists,  could  waive  the  block- 


THE  CLASH  219 

aded  deflection  of  cotton,  when  the  iron  and  steel  de- 
mands of  the  Entente  doubled  the  output  of  the  mineral 
region.  As  the  warring  months  marched  on,  quick  ship- 
ments commanded  untold  bonuses;  as  of  old,  where  a 
man's  purse  was,  there  was  his  heart.  For  commercial 
and  patriotic  reasons  the  company  fretted  impotently  at 
the  continuance  of  the  strike  at  this  time,  especially  when 
rail  congestion  became  serious  throughout  the  country. 
Paul's  trip  was  one  of  many  that  the  metal  magnates 
had  to  make,  to  keep  the  wheels  running  as  smoothly 
as  possible  upon  the  twice  interrupted  tracks. 

This  trip  left  the  mountain  home  in  the  care  of  old 
Peter,  who  stayed  on  in  his  cluttered  servant's  room  be- 
hind the  kitchen.  Diana  Cole  came  in  to  clean  up  once 
or  twice  a  week.  Jim  Hewin's  persistent  curiosity  about 
the  movements  of  the  Judsons  found  full  answer  in  her. 

Two  days  after  the  master's  departure,  Peter  hitched 
up  and  drove  into  town,  to  bring  out  two  boxes  of  books 
from  the  office,  and  some  sacks  of  cotton  seed  meal  and 
oats.  He  dawdled  around  from  store  to  store,  showing 
off  his  temporary  responsibility  and  dignity.  The  hot 
hours  passed;  he  found  relief  in  the  cool  shade  of  a 
side  of  the  ice  factory,  where  frequent  squabbles  among 
intent  young  negro  crap-shooters  were  referred  to  him 
for  his  ponderous  adjustments. 

Diana,  late  in  the  afternoon,  brought  a  pan  of  peas 
out  to  the  mended  yellow  rocker  on  the  front  porch  of 
the  Cole  shack,  and  commenced  popping  the  viscid 
spheres  out  of  the  parched  pods.  At  length  her  hands 
slowed;  she  stared  into  the  red  sunset  beyond  Hillcrest 
Cottage  on  the  hill  across. 

She  was  struck  by  the  odd  reflection  of  the  fiery  glow 
in  the  kitchen  windows.  It  was  as  if  the  late  sun  shone 
clear  through  the  house.  She  rose  agitatedly  to  her  feet, 
the  peas  littering  the  steps,  the  pan  halting  against  the 


220  MOUNTAIN 

wilted  morning-glory  vines.  "Maw !"  she  cried,  panic  in 
her  voice.  "Maw!  Will!  Come  here ' 

A  thin  shimmer  of  smoke  jerked  restlessly  above  the 
kitchen  end  of  the  big  house.  "That  ain't — fire?" 

"An'  Mr.  Paul  an'  ev'ybody  gone!" 

"Will,"  she  turned  hurriedly,  "run  to  Hewintown — 
the  men  can  save  lots.  I'll  phone  the  Fire  Depart- 
ment  " 

She  raced  up  the  familiar  road,  her  mind  working 
feverishly.  Far  behind  Stella  panted.  There  had  been 
no  fire  in  the  kitchen  range  since  morning,  when  Peter 
cooked  his  own  bacon  and  coffee.  At  noon  it  had  been 
cold;  she  had  seen  it;  Peter  had  started  then  for  town. 
.  .  .  Unless  he  had  come  back. 

The  sun  had  almost  gone  down;  it  was  dark  in  the 
hall.  She  threw  open  the  doors,  and  started  frantically 
tugging  at  Miss'  Mary's  chiffonier  and  washstand.  The 
men  arrived,  coatless,  willing.  They  piled  furniture 
around  the  big  cedar  north  of  the  house.  The  heat  of 
this  burning  wing  became  blistering ;  the  things  had  to  be 
moved  down  the  road. 

Diana  remembered  the  telephoning. 

"We  got  an  alarm,"  a  gruff  voice  scolded.  "Engines 
ought  to  be  there  now." 

Two  neighbors  from  the  base  of  the  mountain  came 
up,  and  began  helping.  Armed  guards  at  the  entrances 
to  the  estate  kept  many  away;  these  watched  the  holo- 
caust from  beyond  the  gap,  or  from  their  own  homes. 
Dried  wooden  walls  flamed  up  against  the  dark  sky  like 
giant  fireworks;  massed  smoke  bellied  and  spit  sparks 
as  if  the  mountain  vomited  in  fiery  discomfort. 

Someone  led  a  group  of  helpers  up  to  the  dim  door  of 
the  garret,  crowded  with  carefully  covered  family  treas- 
ures from  Jackson  days.  The  dusty  packing-cases 


THE  CLASH  221 

promised  little.  "Nothing  here,"  he  said,  closing  the 
door. 

The  north  end  was  an  oven  now;  the  rescuers  turned 
to  the  dining  room,  parlors,  and  the  boys'  rooms  on  the 
south. 

Diana  ran  back  to  the  closet  where  Miss'  Mary's  silver 
was  locked.  She  left  this  to  hurry  to  the  window,  and 
then  the  door. 

Huggins,  Jim  Hewin,  and  a  knot  of  guards  stared  at 
the  hectic  activity.  "Hey,  niggers,"  one  called  to  Will 
Cole  and  another,  who  were  steering  the  hall  clock  from 
the  Jackson  home  through  the  door,  "drop  that  clock. 
You  can't  steal  Mr.  Judson's  things." 

Will  and  the  other  reached  the  porch. 

"Drop  it,  I  say,"  rang  out  Jim's  ugly  voice,  as  he 
balanced  his  pistol  tentatively.  "You  bastards,  burnin' 
down  the  house,  to  steal  the  stuff !" 

"That's  a  lie,"  Will  called,  shortly  Others  took  up 
the  cry. 

The  guards  raised  menacing  pistols. 

A  striker,  his  temper  on  fire  from  continuing  irrita- 
tions, dropped  behind  the  nearest  steps,  levelled  his  pistol, 
and  shot  toward  the  armed  group. 

Diana  ran  out  flying,  shielding  Will.  "Don't  shoot  my 
brother,  you  scoundrels " 

Jim's  pistol,  carefully  aimed  at  the  black  striker, 
crackled  viciously.  Tongues  of  flame  spoke  from  the 
armed  deputies. 

"You  plugged  the  gal,"  Huggins  grinned  casually,  aim- 
ing again.  "We  got  both  coons." 

The  astounded  citizens  ran  between  the  sudden  mur- 
derous combatants.  "This  won't  do!" 

"The  house  is  burning,  while  you're  killing  each  other !" 

The  chemical  engine  swung  around  the  southern  curve 


222  MOUNTAIN 

of  the  road,  jetting  ineffectually  against  the  greedy  in- 
sanity of  the  flames.  The  strikers  took  up  the  four 
bodies,  and  carried  them  somberly  to  Hewintown,  Stella 
Cole  following,  dry-eyed  and  shivering  with  uncompre- 
hending hatred. 

Pelham  and  Jane  walked  among  the  smouldering  ruins 
the  next  day,  their  hearts  bitter  at  the  headlines  which 
blamed  the  strikers  for  the  burning.  "There's  no  dirti- 
ness they  won't  stoop  to,"  he  raged.  "Hanging's  too 
good  for  those  editors." 

When  Paul  Judson  arrived,  to  what  had  been  home, 
in  answer  to  Mr.  Kane's  wire,  it  was  to  find  that  Tom 
Hewin,  whose  sub-contract  still  controlled  this  part  of 
the  estate,  had  begun  removing  the  rich  outcrop  where 
the  north  end  of  the  cottage  had  rested. 

"This  is  outrageous,  Hewin!  We  don't  want  this 
touched " 

"It's  the  contract,  Mr.  Judson.  In  section  seven.  I 
supposed " 

Paul  left  him,  agonized  at  heart. 

An  injunction  the  next  day  stopped  the  theft  of  the 
outcrop,  and  removed  the  Hewins  from  their  connection 
with  the  property  and  the  strike. 

Only  Ed  was  left  to  his  mother  to  arrange  for  the 
burial  of  Diana  and  Will.  Neither  of  them  knew,  al- 
though Stella  suspected,  that  there  were  three  dead  in 
the  two  graves. 


XIX 

LIFE  at  the  Hernandez  home  had  its  definite  com- 
pensations, Pelham  found.  A  nearby  garage  held 
the  indispensable  car;  and  there  was  now  no  one  to 
censor  his  comings  and  goings.  As  long  as  he  slept  on 
the  mountain,  Mary  clung  to  this  role ;  the  relief  of  the 
lifted  restraint  was  immediate. 

His  mining  inspector's  badge  gave  him  the  run  of  the 
mountain  property,  although  he  was  careful  not  to  use 
it  in  direct  union  propaganda. 

One  afternoon  late  in  August,  Jim  Hewin  came  up  to 
him  on  a  downtown  avenue.  "Howdy,  Mr.  Judson. 
Say,"  and  the  shifty  eyes  nervously  agitated  toward  Pel- 
ham's  face,  "I  could  do  you  a  good  turn  if  I  wanted  to." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  got  some  dope  you'd  give  a  heap  to  know." 

The  other  regarded  him  with  suspicion.  "What  about, 
Hewin?" 

"I  know  what  the  company's  got  up  its  sleeve.  I  can 
put  you  wise,  all  right.  What's  in  it  for  me?"  He 
waited,  expectant. 

Pelham  choked  down  his  disgust.  "Not  a  cent.  If 
you'd  sell  out  my  father,  you'd  sell  us  out  as  quickly." 
He  walked  off  in  impotent  anger  against  the  go-betweens 
seeking  to  fatten  on  the  bitter  struggle. 

The  local  mining  board  assigned  Pelham  to  the  prop- 
erty he  was  most  familiar  with:  either  for  that  reason, 
or  through  a  grim  irony.  As  mining  inspector,  he  se- 
cured access  to  all  the  books  of  the  company.  This  gave 
him  needed  statistics  for  his  report  on  the  strike  situa- 

223 


224  MOUNTAIN 

tion,  and  kept  him  busy,  and,  against  his  will,  away  from 
Jane,  and  the  solace  and  spur  of  the  hours  with  her. 

The  problem  began  to  shape  itself  more  clearly,  now 
that  he  had  become  to  a  greater  extent  weaned  from 
mountain  and  family.  The  whole  opposition  to  the 
miners'  demands  was  summed  up  and  centered,  in  his 
mind,  in  that  dominant  personality  of  Paul  Judson.  Simi- 
larly he  felt  that  he  embodied  the  opposing  forces.  With- 
out his  presence,  his  thinking  told  him,  the  strike  would 
have  come  just  the  same;  but  he  knew  that  his  cordial 
efforts  had  stiffened  the  fight  of  the  workers  more  than 
they  imagined. 

It  was  a  stake  worth  fighting  for,  that  vast  prone  bulk 
overshadowing  Adamsville,  rich  with  the  congealed  es- 
sence of  the  ages.  His  father  fought  for  himself,  and 
for  the  group  of  spoilers  who  sought  to  bleed  it  for  their 
selfish  sakes.  The  son's  cause  was  the  cause  of  the 
people — of  the  toiling,  inarticulate  herd  fettered  by  ig- 
norance and  immemorial  adjustment  to  serfdom.  De- 
mocracy against  oppression — it  was  the  real  fight  which 
the  Adamsville  press  short-sightedly  claimed  was  being 
waged  over  sea  and  sky  and  land  against  the  war-mad 
encroachment  of  autocracy.  The  warring  causes  abroad 
were  cloudy;  the  local  situation  was  clear.  So  he  told 
himself;  and  the  parallel  spoke  strongly  in  his  stirring 
speeches  to  the  patient  union  fighters. 

A  new  masterfulness  radiated  in  his  utterances.  As 
a  servant  of  the  State,  as  well  as  a  contender  for  the 
people,  he  was  close  to  the  tangled  heart  of  the  intricate 
struggle.  He  felt  surer  of  himself  than  ever. 

The  mood  of  restrained  audacity  found  itself  cabined 
and  confined  in  the  irritation  of  mining  statistics.  The 
card  for  the  University  Club  summer  dance  came  op- 
portunely; he  went,  too,  through  a  perverse  joy  in  em- 
barrassing the  good  people  of  Adamsville  by  his  discon- 


THE  CLASH 


225 


certing  presence,  and  in  studying  their  varied  reactions 
to  his  new  role. 

He  joined  the  group  in  the  grill,  a  little  diffident  as  to 
his  reception.  Lane  Cullom,  unchanging  adherent  of 
old,  caught  him  by  both  hands.  "You  darned  stranger! 
What'll  it  be?" 

Lane  led  him  and  Hallock  Withers,  a  clubman  Pel- 
ham  knew  casually,  to  one  of  the  cosy  benched  tables. 
"Never  forget  that  you're  in  the  presence  of  His  Honor 
the  State  Mining  Inspector,  Hal.  He's  a  nut  in  politics, 
but  he  can  play  tennis." 

"Haven't  lifted  a  racket  in  four  months." 

The  friend  laid  an  affectionate  hand  on  Pelham's  flan- 
nels. "I  brought  a  girl  you've  just  got  to  meet,  Pell! 
She's  from  New  Orleans,  and  she  is  some  trotter!  Vis- 
iting the  Tollivers " 

Pelham  grimaced. 

"Nothing  like  Nellie,  don't  worry!  Her  name  is 
Louise  Ree-sharr " 

"What  in  the  world!" 

Lane  grunted  defensively.  "Something  like  that.  Old 
New  Orleans  family,  and  all  the  rest " 

The  prospect  did  not  attract ;  but  the  girl  did.  She  had 
an  opulent  fulness  that  stopped  distinctly  short  of  being 
plump.  Her  large  eyes  reminded  him  at  once  of  Jane's, 
and  then  of  his  mother's ;  but  there  was  an  artistry  about 
their  seeming  candor  that  seduced  his  fancy.  The  burst 
of  red  roses  at  her  waist  did  not  outshine  the  glow  of 
her  complexion;  vivid  dark  brown  hair  sparkled  with 
brilliants  set  in  a  quaint  tortoise  shell  comb.  Each  of 
the  unimportant  details  assumed  significance  as  contribut- 
ing to  the  totality  of  full-blown  charm. 

She  laid  a  proprietary  arm  in  his,  as  they  passed 
through  the  rainbow  glimmer  of  Oriental  lanterns  sway- 
ing between  the  lawn  trees.  "Is  Adamsville  always  as 


226  MOUNTAIN 

deadly  as  this  ?    New  Orleans  is  bad  enough — but  this !" 

His  throaty  chuckle  answered  her.  "I  assure  you  I 
don't  know." 

"You  live  here?" 

"I'm  not  a  clubman.    Life's  too  busy." 

"Sounds  imposing.  What  do  you  do,  besides  dance 
and  use  those  serious  eyes?" 

"That's  all  my  regular  vocation.  At  off  times  I  play 
tennis,  wave  my  hair  in  the  breeze,  and  inspect  mines." 

"It's  nice  hair."     She  regarded  it  thoughtfully. 

"You  can  pull  it." 

With  amused  tolerance  she  smoothed  it,  then  yanked  it 
suddenly. 

"Ouch!    I  treasure  that." 

An  egotistic  restlessness  urged  him.  He  thought  once 
or  twice  of  Jane,  as  he  monopolized  this  girl.  By  an 
emotional  vagary  he  connected  the  other  with  the  clipped 
and  forbidden  rigors  of  the  mountain  life,  which  he  had 
divorced  finally. 

"How  about  dinner  at  the  club  to-morrow  night,  and 
the  dance  afterwards?  Or  a  ride?" 

"But  I'm  to  go  out  to  the  James',  at  Meadow  Valley. 
Are  you  going?" 

"Ethel  James'?  ...  I  haven't  been  asked." 

"Would  they  include  you?  Could  I  suggest  it?  It's  an 
informal  affair.  It'll  break  up  early." 

"I  think  it  will  be  all  right.  She's  here  to-night.  .  .  . 
We  could  have  dinner  first." 

He  found  an  infrequent  sparkle  in  her  conversation, 
a  pretty  froth  of  talk  that  pleased.  But  it  was  not  for 
this  that  he  sought  her  out.  The  urge  to  wander  that 
the  mountain  had  sown  in  his  blood  impelled  him  most 
of  all.  He  felt  his  imagination  inflamed  by  the  stimulus 
of  her  presence,  the  vivid  challenge  of  her  eyes,  the  au- 
dacious invitation  of  her  lips.  He  had  met  no  woman 


THE  CLASH  227 

hitherto  who  so  invited  love-making.  She  seemed  a 
rounded  vessel  brimfull  of  soft  airs  and  caressing  modu- 
lations of  speech,  that  promised  more  than  the  bare 
words  warranted. 

On  the  return  from  the  James'  country  home,  they  shot 
ahead  of  the  other  cars,  purring  in  poised  flight  down 
the  smooth  macadam  of  the  county  road.  He  turned  off 
into  the  upward  slope  above  Hazelton  that  led  to  the 
mountain;  he  regarded  himself  as  its  privileged  show- 
man. In  front  of  the  drowsy  trimness  of  farm  houses 
they  pulsed,  until  at  last  he  stopped  the  engine  where 
the  road  rounded  over  a  steep  outcrop  dropping  a  jagged 
hundred  feet  to  the  steep  tree-y  declivity  below. 

"There's  a  bench.  It's  a  wonderful  view,"  he  said,  his 
speech  thickened — the  old  timidity  at  the  moment  when 
passion  possessed  him  again  struggling  against  his  desire. 

She  took  the  seat  he  indicated.  The  cool  whip  of  the 
breeze  sprayed  him  with  the  faint  suggestion  of  lilas 
that  hung  about  her  person.  He  tried  to  pull  his  senses 
from  her  overwhelming  fascination. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

She  nodded,  lips  apart,  eyes  starry.  Discarding  his 
shield  of  constraint,  he  turned  swiftly  on  her,  catching 
the  filmy  fabric  covering  her  arms  and  bringing  her 
face  toward  him. 

Her  voice  was  level,  conventional.  "You  mustn't." 
She  tried  to  squirm  away. 

"Yes!"    He  whispered  his  urgent  triumph. 

His  lips  avid  from  long  self-denial,  he  blent  with  the 
wild  sweetness  of  hers.  She  remained  quiescent  a  mo- 
ment, then  sought  to  free  herself.  He  clung  to  her,  as  if 
his  life  depended  on  retaining  the  warm  rapture  of  her 
kiss.  She  thought  he  would  never  end. 

At  last  she  pulled  away,  a  trifle  dazed  with  the  force 
of  his  passion.  His  lips  fell  lower,  kissing  her  shoulder, 


228  MOUNTAIN 

her  arm,  the  hand  squeezing  the  taut  ball  of  her  hand- 
kerchief. As  she  took  even  this  from  him,  he  fell  to 
his  knees  beside  her,  pressing  long  kisses  on  the  hand- 
kerchief, any  symbol  to  satisfy  the  aching  hunger  of  his 
body. 

She  watched  him  in  wonder.  Her  hand  faltered  out 
and  pressed  back  the  damp  hair  from  his  forehead.  "You 
poor  boy !  You  poor,  starved  boy !" 

The  paroxysm  over,  he  sat  at  her  feet,  moodily  watch- 
ing the  lower  reaches  of  the  valley.  He  realized  the 
breach  of  faith  with  Jane ;  but  there  was  a  perverse  part 
of  him  that  rejoiced  at  the  duplicity.  The  other  love  was 
chaste,  beside  this;  after  all,  he  could  love  more  than 
one  woman.  .  .  .  Should  he  stop  with  one  wrenched 
rose,  when  the  bush  was  on  fire  with  red  beauty? 

Again  he  sat  beside  her.  "You  know,  Louise,"  he 
urged  tentatively,  enough  withdrawn  from  the  scene  to 
study  her  reaction  to  his  conduct,  "I've  been  straight 
with  women.  .  .  .  You  are  the  only  girl  I  have  kissed  in 
a  year." 

It  trembled  on  her  tongue  to  say  that  he  had  made  up 
for  lost  time;  no,  that  would  sound  too  flippant.  "I 
know,  I  know,"  her  answer  rang  rich  with  soft  under- 
standing. 

It  was  the  next  night  that  she  reverted  to  the  matter, 
the  fluent  voluptuousness  of  her  body  still  tingling  from 
the  harsh  tenderness  of  his  arms.  "You're  a  funny  boy. 
.  .  .  What  you  said  last  night.  .  .  ." 

"I  said  so  much!" 

Her  thought  could  not  be  laughed  away.  "About  your 
keeping  straight,  you  know.  ...  I  have  a  friend — she 
only  married  last  Mardi  Gras — who  always  insisted  she 
wanted  a  man  who  had  had  experience.  .  .  .  Girls  have 
queer  notions,  haven't  they?" 

"I  should  think  the  girl  would  feel  soiled  .  .  .  that 


THE  CLASH  229 

way.  I  should  hate  to  have  my  mind  filled,  on  my  wed- 
ding night,  comparing  the  wonderful  girl  I  had  won  .  .  . 
with  .  .  .  other  women  I  had  had." 

The  perverse  infidelity  shook  him  again.  "And  yet  I 
kiss."  He  turned  the  word  into  fact. 

"There's  no  logic  in  it,"  he  persisted,  his  body  eased 
with  the  lip-contact.  "Kissing  shouldn't  be  wasted,  any 
more  than  the  rest.  It's  only  a  prelude  to  the  more 
wonderful  finale.  .  .  ." 

"I  enjoy  the  prelude,"  she  temporized,  in  lazy  content. 

"And  afterwards "  he  breathed  on  his  hand  paus- 
ing fearfully  on  the  tantalizing  silken  softness  of  her 
cool  ankle,  then  straying  with  restrained  gusto  toward 
the  edge  of  the  lacy  fabric  above. 

"No,"  she  smiled.  He  solaced  an  obedient  spirit  with 
the  touch  of  the  denying  lips. 

The  next  afternoon  he  never  forgot.  They  started 
early  for  Shadow  Mountain,  promising  the  Tollivers  to 
return  with  mountain  azalea,  if  it  was  still  blooming. 
She  dismissed  this  as  an  excuse. 

Over  the  iron  bridge  curving  above  Shadow  Creek's 
muddy  bluster  they  hummed,  and  then  up  the  hill.  They 
left  the  car  in  the  shade  of  a  sandy  lane,  and  clambered 
up  the  steep  intricacies  of  sandstone,  to  a  wide  table-rock 
slipped  from  the  hoary  buttresses  above.  Beyond  this 
were  the  azaleas. 

The  sun-splashed  slope  was  a  dizzy  riot  of  the  rosy 
blossoms.  A  fringe  of  the  stocky  shrubs  curved  over  the 
jutting  shelf  of  the  rock,  burning  with  timid  pink  blos- 
soms at  the  crest  of  their  blooming.  A  few  of  the  in- 
dividual flowers  had  passed  maturity,  and  hung  in  the 
woodland  wind,  perilously  pendent  from  the  long  pistils. 
Louise,  rejoicing  in  the  soft  gray-green  of  her  smock, 
lifted  a  big  spray  of  the  scented  beauties  and  nested  her 
face  in  them.  A  brown  shimmer  of  hair  caught  on  a 


230  MOUNTAIN 

nervy  twig :  Pelham  undid  it  with  unnecessary  delibera- 
tion, and  took  pay  for  his  chivalry. 

They  turned  to  the  flowers.  Uneven  ripples  of  color 
spread  from  the  gray  rock's  knees  toward  the  blue  crest 
horizon,  a  fragrant  carpeting  of  pink  and  white  and 
every  modulation  down  to  a  deep  ruby.  To  the  right  a 
veritable  tree  of  speckled  petals,  frilled  and  dancing  on 
airy  feet  in  the  sun-drizzle.  A  curveting  breeze  blew 
up  a  spray  of  flowery  snow,  dusting  their  footing.  The 
farther  blossoms  seemed,  by  some  trick  of  vision,  a 
flowery  fabric  clinging  veil-like  above  the  gay  green  be- 
neath. It  was  a  restless  pool  of  glowing  color  and  odor. 

From  bush  to  bush  they  zigzagged,  until  her  face  was 
bowered  in  the  bright  sprays,  and  his  fingers  weary  with 
whittling  their  stems.  He  took  them  from  her,  left  her 
on  the  rock,  and  piled  the  flowers  over  the  rear  seat. 

As  he  returned,  his  eyes  rose  restfully  from  her  blos- 
somed opulence  to  the  lake  of  blooms.  "There  seem  to 
be  more  here  than  before!  They  grow  faster  than  we 
pick." 

She  made  room  for  him  beside  her.  Her  head  found 
a  soft  pillow  in  his  coat;  lazily  she  stretched  her  body 
on  the  natural  couch  of  lichened  firmness. 

His  lips  burned  greedily  against  the  soft  flush  of  her 
neck.  He  let  his  torch-like  body  rest  half  upon  hers,  for 
a  long  silence  of  tantalizing  rapture.  At  length,  repent- 
ant at  the  thought  of  Jane,  he  swung  to  a  seat  beside  the 
other  girl.  In  a  moment  he  was  conscious  only  of  her, 
proud  with  an  inner  satisfaction  in  the  man's  role  he  was 
sure  he  was  playing;  more  strongly  than  either  of  these 
feelings,  afraid — afraid  of  himself,  afraid  lest  the  urgent 
emotions  writhing  within  him  would  drive  control  from 
him,  and  force  him  into  a  situation  which  would  be,  no 
matter  its  outcome,  unsettling,  disquieting.  .  .  . 


THE  CLASH  231 

Man's  innate  tendency  to  mate  as  freely  as  the  vast 
mountain  oaks,  shaking  their  pollen  broadcast  on  every 
breath  of  breeze,  was  in  him;  but  this  had  been  tamed 
and  sublimated,  by  his  mother's  over  fond  molding,  by 
her  pricking  desire  to  keep  him  hers  and  no  other 
woman's  as  long  as  possible,  into  an  ingrowing  chastity, 
a  morbidly  re-fondled  rejection  of  sex,  except  for  the 
arm's-length  wooing  of  Jane.  But  the  very  opulence  of 
his  flowering  mountain  spoke  against  this,  urged  an 
abandon  to  the  fierce  ecstasies  of  yielding  and  taking. 
The  warring  wills  found  a  sanguine  battle-ground  within 
him.  There  was  a  throbbing  zest  in  tantalizing  himself, 
by  postponing  the  inevitable  necessity  of  some  choice. 
He  must  think  it  out  carefully;  he  could  wait.  .  . 

Shaking  her  skirts  free  of  littering  twigs,  she  rose. 
He  was  a  puzzle.  She  steadied  herself  by  his  arm.  "I 
like  it  here,"  she  summed  up  softly. 

The  wild  azalea  filled  the  glassed  sunroom  of  the  Tolli- 
vers  with  a  faint  echo  of  the  glory  of  the  distant  moun- 
tain. 


XX 


WHAT  do  you  think  of  that,  comrade  Judson?" 
Mrs.  Hernandez  asked,  pushing  the  morning 
paper  over,  and  watching  his  expression  closely. 

The  first  sheet  of  the  Times-Dispatch  held  a  page- 
wide  display  headline,  concerning  a  dynamiting  conspir- 
acy unearthed  among  the  leaders  of  the  strike.  With 
furious  amazement  Pelham  read  of  the  finding  of  a 
bundle  of  the  explosive  sticks  on  the  tracks  just  before 
a  trainload  of  workers  was  to  arrive,  and  of  a  heavy 
charge,  its  fuse  lit,  in  an  upper  opening  of  the  second 
ramp.  Company  guards,  he  read,  had  testified  to  seeing 
four  strikers  sneak  down  the  gap,  away  from  the  entry. 
Wilson,  Jensen,  and  two  other  active  agitators  were  al- 
ready in  jail;  other  arrests  were  to  follow.  A  two 
column  editorial  bitterly  assailed  the  "un-American"  la- 
borers, and  demanded  the  militia  to  end  the  reign  of 
terror. 

"It's  a  plant,  I'm  sure.  They're  aching  for  an  excuse 
to  bring  on  the  soldiers." 

"They  got  four  of  the  boys,"  she  reminded  him. 

"It's  outrageous." 

He  hurried  around  to  the  strike  headquarters.  Ben 
Spence,  Dawson,  McGue,  and  four  others  broke  off 
their  tense  discussion  as  he  entered. 

"Why  didn't  you  phone  me  about  this?" 

Spence  answered,  his  tone  not  too  friendly.  "Couldn't 
find  you." 

"We  haven't  seen  you  for  a  week,  Mr.  Judson,"  blared 

232 


THE  CLASH  233 

out  Dawson.  "We  been  readin'  the  social  news,  too. 
You've  been  busy." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I've  been  busy  on  my  report."  A  flash  of 
his  father's  acidity  spoke  in  the  tones.  Then  he  asked 
more  quietly,  "What  about  bonds?" 

"You  can  help  there,"  Spence  mollified  him.  "We've 
got  most  of  'em  arranged  for.  When  will  your  report 
go  up?" 

Pelham  twisted  forward  on  his  chair.  "It'll  contain 
this  latest  plant.  I'll  finish  this  week.  I  suspected  some- 
thing of  the  kind."  He  told  them  of  the  offer  made  by 
Jim  Hewin. 

"It's  an  old  stunt,"  said  Dawson,  unbending  a  little 
from  his  suspicion  of  "white-collar"  meddling  in  labor 
troubles.  "They  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  pull  such  stale 

gags.  But  here  in  the  South Those  blackguardly 

uglies  will  swear  any  of  us  into  jail." 

"There's  the  jury,"  said  Spence,  a  fighting  flash  in  his 
eyes.  "We  can  play  a  trick  or  two.  Corporations  ain't 
popular  in  Adamsville.  Well,  we'll  get  the  boys  out 
first." 

The  whole  thing  brought  Pelham  up  sharply  to  his  ne- 
glected work.  He  got  one  more  maddeningly  brief  sight 
of  Louise,  before  she  continued  her  round  of  visits.  "I'll 
be  back,  lover  boy,  around  the  holidays." 

"How  can  I  stand  your  being  away?" 

But  the  Tollivers  were  too  close  to  permit  his  saying 
more. 

Nursing  his  unsettling  sense  of  guilt,  until  he  was  sure 
his  face  must  publish  the  amorous  errancy,  he  took  him- 
self to  Jane  on  the  accustomed  Friday  evening.  She 
had  not  marked  his  absences,  accepting  the  explanation 
that  the  report  had  kept  him  busied.  To  his  wonder- 
ment, she  was  as  dear  and  essentially  desirable  as  ever; 
her  range  of  attractiveness  lay  in  ways  so  remote  from 


234  MOUNTAIN 

Louise's  red  and  feverish  charm,  that  he  sensed  no  con- 
flict between  them;  he  could  love  both  wholly  for  their 
differing  appeals. 

Yet  the  evening  was  different,  to  him.  The  memory  of 
intimate  contacts  with  the  brief  love  who  had  gone  left 
a  mental  stigma  upon  his  body ;  he  was  less  willing  than 
ever  to  touch  Jane,  or  think  of  kissing  her;  she  must 
be  kept  all  the  more  congealed  in  icy  protection.  As 
defense  against  unnerving  personal  confidences,  he  had 
brought  his  report,  which  had  begun  to  trouble  him,  to 
ask  her  help  and  counsel.  "I'm  afraid  of  it,  Jane.  You 
see,  it  goes  all  the  way  .  .  .  about  my  own  father.  It'll 
be  bound  to  make  trouble  for  him  .  .  .  and  me.  I  could 
have  another  inspector  frame  the  final  wording " 

"You  back  out !  You  must  be  a  changeling  some  cor- 
poration elf  has  dumped  off  on  me!" 

"Don't  tease.  The  thing  bites  too  hard;  it  has  noth- 
ing but  teeth." 

"Of  course  you'll  make  it!  Give  it  here;  we'll  fix  it 
so  that  it  can  masticate  the  toughest  corporation  board. 
What  if  it  does  make  trouble?  It's  the  truth.  .  .  ." 

She  went  over  the  whole  of  it,  toning  down  the  vitu- 
perative rhetoric  of  the  opening  and  conclusion,  adding 
force  to  his  presentation  of  facts.  He  was  startled  at 
her  ability  to  vivify  the  abstractions  symbolizing  the  red 
rage  tearing  apart  city  and  mountain.  Before  she  was 
done,  he  was  re-converted  to  faith  in  his  eloquent  ac- 
cusations. 

At  length  it  was  finished.  He  saw  that  advance  copies 
reached  the  papers  on  the  day  it  was  received  by  the 
governor.  The  Advertiser  and  the  Times-Dispatch  did 
not  even  mention  it.  But  the  ever-helpful  Register  more 
than  made  up  for  their  censoring.  The  slashing  indict- 
ment of  the  companies  for  their  disregard  of  the  pro- 
tective laws,  the  startling  story  of  their  lobbies  to  defeat 


THE  CLASH  235 

safety  measures,  even  the  account  of  his  father's  ac- 
tivity at  the  State  Federation  of  Labor,  with  the  ad- 
vertisements in  the  Voice  of  Labor  as  exhibits,  were 
given  in  full.  This  was  a  new  frankness  in  Adamsville 
politics.  From  this  Pelham  passed  to  a  treatment  of 
starvation  wages  on  the  one  hand,  and  prodigal  salaries, 
surpluses  and  dividends  on  the  other.  He  featured  that 
the  strike  was  for  the  enforcement  of  existing  laws,  and 
that  the  companies  refused  any  arbitration.  The  con- 
clusion recommended  that  the  state  enforce  arbitration, 
or,  if  the  companies  could  not  be  controlled,  that  the 
profiteering  be  ended  by  the  state's  taking  over  the  mines 
and  running  them. 

The  lonely  editorial  voice  of  the  Register  backed  up 
even  the  most  radical  demands  of  the  document. 

The  answer  of  the  companies  came  promptly.  Both 
of  the  other  papers  broke  silence  by  denouncing  the  re- 
port as  dishonest  propaganda,  with  a  demand  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  offending  young  hothead.  They  called  again 
for  the  militia  to  end  the  disorder  at  the  mines. 

Pelham  received  a  wire  from  Governor  Tennant  the 
same  night,  suspending  him  from  the  state's  services 
under  charges  of  misconduct  in  office.  The  two  hostile 
papers  gave  the  details,  the  next  morning;  his  strike  ac- 
tivities were  set  forth,  and  given  as  reasons  for  his  dis- 
missal. 

"You'll  get  your  hearing,"  Ben  Spence  told  him,  "but 
that'll  be  all.  It's  goodbye  with  you,  my  boy.  And 
you've  drawn  just  two  pay  checks!" 

His  father  descended  on  him  in  proxy  during  the  af- 
ternoon, in  the  person  of  Pratt  Judson,  who  had  run  up 
from  Jackson,  at  Paul's  suggestion,  after  interviewing 
the  governor,  to  act  as  intermediary.  Pelham  listened 
with  ill  grace  to  his  uncle's  suave  attempts  to  cloud  the 
matter. 


236  MOUNTAIN 

"Bob  Tennant  is  a  friend  of  yours,  as  well  as  mine, 
Pelham.  It  would  certainly  hurt  him  to  remove  you; 
but  what  is  he  to  do  ?" 

"Does  my  father  demand  the  removal  ?" 

"You  know  better.  He  stood  up  for  you,  even  against 
the  whole  board  of  directors.  Family  means  a  lot  to 
Paul.  But  they're  out  for  your  scalp.  You've  played 
yourself  into  their  hands." 

"I  don't  see  how,"  the  boy  repeated  doggedly,  curving 
a  steel-edged  ruler  until  it  cracked  alarmingly.  "I  don't 
see  how." 

"If  you'd  gotten  anyone's  advice,  my  boy,  you  would 
know  that  a  state  official  can't  take  sides  in  such  matters. 
You've  actually  served  on  the  strike  committees,  haven't 
you?" 

"Heretofore  inspectors  haven't  failed  to  serve  the  com- 
panies. They  weren't  fired." 

"Let's  not  beat  around  the  bush.  Here's  the  best  that 
Tennant  can  do.  The  charges  need  never  come  up,  if 
you  don't  kick  up  another  row.  The  suspension  can  go 
for  the  present,  and  then  in  due  course  you  can  resign. 
Mary  tells  me  you've  wanted  to  take  up  advanced  work 
in  sociology.  You  know  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  Pelham ;  but 
I'll  be  willing,  to  pull  you  out  of  this  hole,  to  stand  the 
whole  expense." 

"Would  you  advise  me  to  retreat  under  fire?  Resign, 
with  charges  hanging  over  me  ?" 

The  portly  uncle  thought  a  minute.  "They'll  be  with- 
drawn now,  Pelham,  if  you'll  agree  to  resign  in  six 
months,  and  take  a  vacation  until  then.  There'll  be 
nothing  against  you." 

The  ruler  splintered  abruptly,  littering  the  ordered 
desk.  "It's  running  away  from  a  fight,  Uncle  Pratt,  and 
you  know  it.  I  can't  do  it." 

"Think  of  the  family — a  black  mark  like  this " 


THE  CLASH  237 

"I'm  thinking  of  the  miners  ...  of  my  duty  to  them 
and  the  people." 

"We're  practical  men,  Pelham.  You  know  enough 
about  politics  to  know  that  you're  butting  your  head 
against  a  stone  mountain." 

"Then  I'll  butt,  damn  'em !  Talk  straight,  Uncle  Pratt. 
Would  you  advise  me  to  back  out  of  a  fight  in  the  middle 
of  it?" 

The  elder  man  grinned  in  defeated  sympathy.  "You're 
a  young  fool,  Pelham.  We've  got  to  do  this  quickly,  or 
it's  too  late.  I  could  give  you  until  to-morrow  to  think 
it  over " 

"I  don't  need  the  time.  This  is  the  only  answer  I 
could  make." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  Paul.  If  you  ever  get  into  a  scrape  of 
any  kind " 

"I  appreciate  that,  and  I'll  remember  it." 

The  strike  committee  heard  what  had  occurred  within 
an  hour,  as  far  as  Pelham's  decision  was  concerned. 

"Good  boy!"  said  Spence.  "Give  'em  a  run  for  their 
dirty  money." 

Serrano,  an  unofficial  member  of  the  group,  broke  in 
excitedly.  "Why  not  run  Judson  as  labor  candidate  for 
sheriff,  and  elect  him?  That's  the  best  answer  to  make 
to  the  crooks !  You'd  run,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

Pelham  thought  rapidly.  It  would  at  least  give  a  won- 
derful chance  for  propaganda,  even  if  they  couldn't  over- 
come the  big  odds  against  them.  "I  don't  think  we  could 
win " 

"Win  ?  We'd  lick  the  lights  out  of  'em !  Man,  Adams- 
ville's  waking  up!  With  the  strike  going  on,  you  could 
beat  out  Dick  Sumter  hands  down!  Look  how  he's 
turned  the  sheriff's  office  over  to  the  companies!  Will 
you  do  it?" 

There  might  be  something  in  it;  his  heart  expanded 


238  MOUNTAIN 

sharply  from  the  excitement.  He  kept  his  voice  level. 
"I'd  be  willing  to,  of  course.  What  do  you  think  of  it, 
Ben?" 

The  cautious  labor  lawyer  was  not  so  enthusiastic. 
"You  might  do  it,  Judson.  You'd  have  to  have  union 
labor  entirely  behind  you " 

"We  can  make  'em  endorse  him!" 

"Socialist  and  all?"  quizzed  Spence,  smiling  doubt- 
fully. 

"Sure !  Think  what  it  would  mean  to  the  strike,  if  we 
had  the  sheriff's  office!  We  could  enforce  order  then. 
.  .  .  They'd  have  no  chance  to  call  out  their  brass-but- 
toned Willies." 

"Well,  it's  a  big  chance." 

The  hearing  at  Jackson,  the  next  week,  was  the  cut- 
and-dried  farce  that  Pratt  Judson  and  Spence  had  pre- 
dicted. The  governor  was  friendly  but  firm.  "It's  my 
duty,  Mr.  Judson,  as  a  servant  of  all  the  people,  to  re- 
move you." 

Jane,  on  fire  with  the  idea  of  the  campaign,  caught  his 
hand  impulsively  when  he  hurried  back  to  tell  her. 
"Don't  mind  it.  We  knew  what  they  would  do.  .  .  . 
Now — show  them!" 

The  thing  moved  slowly.  There  were  countless  ob- 
stacles. Pooley,  Bowden,  the  regular  machine,  would 
not  hear  of  it.  An  uproarious  meeting  of  the  Trade 
Council  shoved  through  an  endorsement.  The  leaders 
changed  their  talk  then,  but  Pelham  felt  their  hidden 
antipathy  working  against  him.  So  far  there  had  been 
no  open  announcement  of  the  race,  and  it  was  now  the 
last  week  of  August. 

"Ben  Spence,  you've  got  to  put  this  thing  over.  Hire 
Arlington  Hall — the  socialist  local  will  put  up  the  money 
— and  start  it  next  Sunday  afternoon." 


THE  CLASH 


239 


"Hadn't  we  better  wait  until  things  are  straightened 
out  a  bit " 

"\Ye'll  wait  until  election's  over,  then.  We've  waited 
three  weeks  now/' 

"All  right.  Dawson  says  he'll  back  you ;  he's  worth  a 
lot." 

Then  began  first-hand  knowledge  of  the  detail  of 
politics  for  Pelham.  Even  before  the  announcement 
meeting,  the  socialist  local,  in  its  haphazard  groping  for 
democracy,  selected  a  committee  to  steer  the  campaign. 
They  met  in  Pelham's  office  the  next  night. 

Pelham  mused  over  their  faces,  as  they  blundered 
down  to  business.  Surely  the  most  extraordinary  group 
ever  assembled  to  direct  the  political  destinies  of  Adams- 
ville !  Serrano,  a  bricklayer,  a  loud  voiced,  commanding 
bulk  of  a  man,  who  banged  with  the  improvised  gavel; 
Christopher  Duckworth,  pioneer  in  the  Adamsville  move- 
ment, an  impecunious  old  architect  who  had  had  his 
name  on  the  state  ticket  at  every  election  for  sixteen 
years ;  two  machinists,  fighting  units  of  a  fighting  group, 
"Mule"  Hinton  and  Henry  Gup;  the  party's  state  sec- 
retary, Mrs.  Ola  Spigner,  who  had  come  up  from  her 
farm  in  Choctaw  County,  ever  on  hand  for  a  fight; 
Phifer  Craft,  a  failure  as  a  commission  merchant,  and 
a  deep  theoretical  student  of  Marx  and  Dietzgen;  Abe 
Katz,  spokesman  of  the  tailors'  union  and  the  Arbeiter 
Ring;  and  his  landlady,  Mrs.  Hernandez,  invariabld 
woman  member  on  committees.  They  were  not  even 
leaders  in  their  trades,  except  Serrano  and  perhaps 
Katz.  Most  were  poor  speakers  or  spoke  not  at  all. 
But  out  of  the  ill-lit  slums  and  lean  cheap  suburbs  they 
had  been  flung  together  by  a  burning  idealism  for  a 
greater  world.  They  were  the  hands  of  a  people's  grop- 
ing faith. 


240  MOUNTAIN 

"I  mofe  we  elect  us  a  treasurer,"  said  Abe  Katz  seri- 
ously. So  began  the  business  of  the  campaign. 

Dawson,  Ben  Spence,  even  Bowden  and  the  Bivens 
group  dropped  in  at  occasional  meetings;  but  this  faith- 
ful nucleus  was  always  on  hand,  doing  the  real  work. 
They  mapped  out  the  itinerary  of  speakers,  got  out  the 
first  literature,  sent  soliciting  committees  to  the  various 
unions  for  endorsement  and  funds,  in  fact  directed  the 
whole  campaign. 

Any  of  the  comrades  were  willing  to  be  broken  in  as 
chairmen  of  the  meetings.  The  speaking  at  first  fell 
heavily  on  Serrano,  Duckworth,  and  Pelham  himself ;  but 
gradually  the  liberal  element  of  the  city  came  into  the 
fight.  Dr.  Gulley  threw  the  support  of  his  Free  Con- 
gregation into  the  contest  with  the  "County  Ring,"  as 
represented  by  Sumter;  near-radical  lawyers,  Will 
Tatum,  Judge  Deason,  Harvey  Cade,  eager  to  oust  the 
corporation  toadies,  were  invaluable  assistants;  Lane 
Cullom's  car  was  always  at  the  call  of  the  committee, 
and  shared  with  Pelham's  the  duty  of  touring  the  ram- 
bling county  roads  to  the  further  meetings. 

The  unique  campaign  drew  crowds  from  the  start. 
One  night  Pelham  called  for  a  show  of  hands  of  all  the 
men  present  who  were  voters;  the  result  was  so  aston- 
ishing, that  he  repeated  the  lesson  again  and  again.  In 
West  Adamsville,  filled  with  itinerant  furnace  workers, 
not  one  man  in  fifteen  was  a  voter.  In  the  country  dis- 
tricts, about  one  in  ten;  in  the  city,  slightly  less.  With 
the  aid  of  Ben  Spence,  he  looked  up  the  question,  and 
thereafter  added  a  vigorous  attack  on  the  election  laws 
to  his  onslaughts  on  the  company-owned  sheriff's  office. 

"Do  you  know  what  your  servants  down  in  Jackson 
did  in  1902,  when  they  framed  the  new  Constitution? 
They  told  you  it  would  take  the  vote  from  'the  niggers' ; 
it  took  the  vote  from  you  white  men  as  well.  In  New 


THE  CLASH  241 

York,  in  Illinois,  in  most  of  the  northern  and  eastern 
states,  from  eighteen  to  twenty-two  per  cent  of  the  popu- 
lation vote;  in  Western  suffrage  states,  up  to  thirty-five 
per  cent.  And  in  the  South?  Georgia  has  something 
like  five  per  cent,  this  state  four,  and  Mississippi  only 
three  and  a  half  per  cent!  Half  of  the  men  in  this 
state  are  white ;  six  out  of  every  ten  of  these  have  been 
disfranchised  by  that  Constitution.  The  cumulative  poll 
tax,  which  says  you  can't  vote  unless  every  poll  tax  since 
1902  has  been  paid  by  the  February  before  the  election, 
the  grandfather  clause,  giving  votes  to  the  southern 
slave-masters  and  not  to  the  southern  wage-slaves  who 
make  the  state's  wealth  now,  these  have  robbed  you  of 
your  voice  in  the  government.  The  southern  laborer  has 
been  classed  with  children,  women,  negroes,  and  idiots — 
will  you  stand  for  it  ?" 

The  campaign,  thanks  to  the  Register's  hearty  support, 
began  to  alarm  the  politicians.  Pat  Donohoo,  who  con- 
trolled five  saloons,  and  claimed  to  be  able  to  deliver  the 
Irish  and  Catholic  vote,  came  in  to  see  Pelham.  "We 
know  your  father,"  he  confided  huskily.  "Give  me  your 
word  that  you'll  behave  when  you're  elected,  and  I'll  see 
that  you  get  every  Catholic  and  Irish  vote  in  the  county. 
We're  out  to  teach  Dick  Sumter  a  lesson." 

Pelham  answered  briskly.  "Of  course  I'll  behave. 
My  platform  says  what  I'll  do,  Donohoo.  If  your  men 
want  to  vote  for  me,  go  to  it.  They'll  get  a  square  deal 
from  me,  I'll  promise  that." 

"You  see,"  he  explained  to  the  committee,  "he's  play- 
ing safe.  No  matter  who's  elected,  he  can  claim  the 
credit." 

"Never  trust  them  Catholics,"  said  Mrs.  Spigner,  a  de- 
vout propagandist  for  the  Menace.  "They're  all  Jes- 
uits." 

"He  couldn't  deliver  anyhow,"  consoled  Ben  Spence. 


242  MOUNTAIN 

The  crafty  lawyer  made  the  labor  support  fairly  solid, 
by  promising  liberal  appointments  to  the  State  Federa- 
tion crowd.  Pelham  did  not  know  about  this,  and  Spence 
did  not  imagine  that  the  promises  would  have  to  be 
fulfilled. 

For  one  of  the  meetings  the  candidate  worked  harder 
than  usual.  It  had  been  old  Duckworth's  suggestion  that 
a  speaking  be  advertised  for  the  corner  across  from  the 
University  Club,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  "silk-stocking" 
district.  The  neighborhood  was  liberally  posted,  and 
the  committee  were  on  hand  to  cover  the  retreat  of  the 
speakers,  if  too  much  of  a  riot  developed.  To  their  sur- 
prise, the  large  crowd  listened  to  Dr.  Gulley's  fervent 
appeals,  to  the  withering  sarcasm  of  Harvey  Cade,  and 
to  Judson's  vitriolic  attack  on  the  leisure  class,  with 
close  and  appreciative  attention.  One  or  two  of  the 
East  Highlands  boys  hooted  a  few  times,  but  a  police- 
man routed  them.  The  applause  was  as  hearty  here  as 
at  Hazelton  or  Irondale. 

Pelham's  opponent  stirred  himself  tardily,  and  was 
careful  not  to  answer  the  accurate  broadside  of  charges 
flung  at  him  by  the  deposed  mining  inspector.  General 
attacks  on  socialism  were  much  more  popular  than  lame 
apologies  for  an  unfair  and  one-sided  administration; 
and  the  common  charge  that  American  socialism  was 
pro-German  was  roared  and  ballyhooed  by  the  political 
servants  of  the  corporations,  upon  platforms  opulently 
framed  in  bunting.  Pelham  laughed  at  this  intense  pa- 
triotism, suddenly  discovered  as  an  answer  to  the  sher- 
iff's anti-labor  activities;  but  it  made  continual  inroads 
upon  his  strength  with  the  docile  people.  The  tide  wa- 
vered to  and  fro ;  the  Register  claimed  four  days  before 
election  that  Judson's  chances  were  better  than  even ;  the 
alarmed  opposing  sheets  insisted  that  there  was  only  one 
man  in  the  race,  and  that  the  iron  city  would  never  toler- 


THE  CLASH 


243 


ate  a  man  who  openly  advocated  free  love,  kaiserism, 
and  the  despotism  of  the  mob. 

The  closing  rally  of  the  Democrats  came  on  Saturday 
night,  an  old-fashioned  whooping  wind-up  in  the  Lyric 
theater;  Pelham  covered  five  county  meetings  and  two 
city  ones  during  the  same  time.  Monday  night,  while  the 
opposing  forces  rested  their  public  activities,  occurred 
the  Judson  finale,  at  Main  Park,  in  the  rickety  summer 
band-stand.  The  trampled  green  in  the  open  heart  of 
the  city  was  black  with  intent  and  serious  faces,  whose 
throats  cheered  themselves  hoarse  over  the  hoarsened 
voice  of  their  leader, — though  his  tones,  roughened  by 
night  after  night  of  straining  open-air  talking,  could 
barely  reach  half  of  his  crowd. 

The  final  applause  was  given;  the  reporters  rushed 
off  with  their  copy;  the  squads  of  comrades  and  union 
men  left  with  their  wives  and  children  for  cheap  scat- 
tered homes.  Pelham  took  Jane  back  to  the  Andersons', 
to  sit,  glum  and  wholly  exhausted,  slumped  against  the 
back  of  the  couch,  until  after  two. 

"Never  mind,  you  dear  old  fighter,"  she  insisted. 
"You've  done  more  than  anyone  else  could." 

Tuesday,  election  day,  was  a  hectic  tumult  of  ex- 
citement for  both  sides.  Lane  Cullom  insisted  on  driv- 
ing Pelham  in  his  car,  proud  of  the  reflected  light  that 
went  to  the  faithful  aid  of  the  candidate.  The  relief 
of  shooting  along  chill  stretches  of  November  road  from 
polling-place  to  polling-place  was  indescribable. 

At  five  the  polls  closed.  Pelham,  after  a  lunch-stand 
supper,  sat  in  his  half-dismantled  headquarters,  his  finger 
upon  the  pulse  of  the  wires  that  led  to  every  part  of 
the  county. 

The  returns  began.  One  by  one  the  faithful  precincts 
lifted  Judson  to  a  good  lead,  and  increased  it.  Hazel- 
ton,  West  Adamsville,  distant  Coalstock,  the  mining 


244  MOUNTAIN 

boxes,  all  went  well,  more  than  neutralizing  the  early 
farming  returns,  which  were  four  to  one  for  Sumter. 
And  then  the  totals  grew  evener,  and  wavered  now  one 
way,  now  another.  The  vocal  vote  was  Judson's;  the 
silent,  unchangeable  Democratic  mass  began  to  lend  its 
weight  to  the  incumbent.  There  was  still  a  fighting 
chance.  Counting  at  the  city  boxes  proceeded  with  sick- 
ening slowness. 

The  last  of  the  county  returns  was  wired  from  distant 
Chinaberry  Junction:  Judson  led  by  fifty-two  votes! 
If  the  city  had  broken  even,  he  would  have  it ! 

The  jubilant  comrades  and  strikers  conscripted  sudden 
parades  of  celebration ;  the  corporations  were  licked !  It 
would  paralyze  the  companies  to  have  the  law-enforcers, 
their  oldtime  bulwark,  turned  against  them! 

Then,  as  if  at  the  touch  of  a  single  lever,  the  thirteen 
big  city  boxes  unloosed  their  flood  of  figures.  First 
ward,  Sumter,  a  hundred  lead;  eleventh,  Sumter  three 
hundred  ahead ;  ninth,  Sumter,  two  hundred  more ;  fifth, 
eight  hundred  and  eighty  to  the  good  for  Sumter — this 
was  the  Highlands  ward;  not  one  lone  box  tallying  for 
Judson.  Within  twenty  minutes,  enough  of  the  returns 
were  in  to  convince  Pelham  that  the  citizens  of  Bragg 
County  had  spoken  in  their  freeborn  majesty,  and  had 
chosen  Richard  Sumter  sheriff  by  a  majority  of  almost 
two  to  one. 

The  morning  papers  gave  the  corrected  figures — 8,450 
to  4,281.  The  corporations  still  held  the  court  house. 

"It's  really  a  victory,"  Mrs.  Spigner,  the  state  secre- 
tary, repeated  with  cheerless  optimism,  as  Pelham  drove 
her  to  the  early  mail  train  for  Choctaw  County.  "You 
raised  a  socialist  vote  of  six  hundred  something  like  six 
hundred  per  cent.  You  impatient  youngsters,  who  think 
one  election  has  any  importance!  Remember,  comrade, 
it's  all  a  part  of  the  class  struggle !" 


THE  CLASH  245 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  fatiguing  post  mortems  and 
loquacious  consolations,  of  noisy  assurances  that  he  had 
won,  punctuating  his  dismemberment  of  the  decapitated 
headquarters,  he  sought  his  real  inspiriter,  Jane.  The 
city  lay  under  a  shimmer  of  thin  November  sunshine, 
that  woke  to  dusky  gold  the  tawny  leaves  flickering,  at 
the  chilly  breeze's  lash,  upon  motionless  black  boughs — 
that  revealed  pitilessly  the  feathery  plumes  of  golden 
rod  reaching  over  the  sidewalk  from  the  vacant  lot  be- 
yond Andersons',  plumes  the  season's  slow  alchemy  had 
transmuted  to  insubstantial  silver  fragility,  sifting  into 
the  reddish  mold  at  the  fingering  of  the  spurts  of 
ground  wind.  Pelham  would  have  preferred  a  drizzling, 
cloud-heavy  night  sky,  in  which  the  decrepit  cheerful- 
ness of  the  late  landscape,  and  he  himself,  could  have 
been  decently  shrouded  in  isolating  obscurity. 

Jane  gave  him  both  her  hands  as  he  mounted  the  last 
step,  reading,  in  the  drawn  corners  of  his  mouth,  and 
the  heaviness  beneath  his  eyes,  the  half -raised  signals  of 
surrender. 

There  was  a  flavor  of  bitterness  in  his  first  words. 
"It  was  really  a  victory,  after  all " 

"You've  heard  that  enough  to-day,  I  know.  Don't 

try  to  talk :  here,  these  cushions "  slipping  them  easily 

under  his  head,  as  a  firm  hand  upon  his  shoulder  soothed 
his  protest.  "Let  yourself  relax,  all  over.  There." 

Her  eyes  meditated  between  one  of  the  chairs  and 
the  end  of  the  couch  beside  him.  She  sat  upon  the  couch. 

The  drowsy  stillness,  the  moment's  remoteness  from 
the  iron  affairs  of  the  racking  city,  the  soft  rustle  of 
her  dress,  the  gentle  eddies  of  air  that  seemed  scented 
by  her  presence,  lulled  and  comforted.  He  reached  for 
her  hand,  and  laid  it  against  his  cheek,  where  it  loitered, 
a  cool  solace,  a  gradual  masterer  of  his  undirected 
fancies. 


246  MOUNTAIN 

The  hours  sagged  by.  There  was  little  talk ;  that  could 
wait.  Not  of  his  willing  his  mind  began  to  embroider 
the  miserly  store  of  caresses  he  had  asked  or  received 
from  Jane ;  one  by  one  the  feverish  moments  with  the 
other  girl,  purged  into  a  less  bodily  ecstasy,  recurred 
to  him,  with  his  own  love's  face  and  form  holding  their 
rightful  place  in  his  arms — translated  memories  which 
in  their  turn  were  embellished  by  a  drugged  imagination 
into  warmer  visionings  of  mutual  surrender.  Attempts 
to  re-channel  his  thinking  were  unsuccessful;  at  last  he 
let  the  wanton  heart  have  its  way. 

Never  had  he  needed  a  mother  as  now,  Jane  felt,  as 
she  bent  her  energy  toward  his  tired  spirit.  He  needed 
more  than  a  mother;  his  feverish  driving  unrest  would 
quiet,  in  arms  that  held  him  closer  than  a  mother's 
might.  The  time  had  come  for  her  to  be  mother  to 
him,  and  something  else.  Winner  or  not,  he  was  a  hearty 
fighter  .  .  .  decent.  .  .  .  Jane  Lauderdale  Judson  .  .  . 
the  name  meant  something  now ;  she  had  helped  it  mean 
something.  A  tired  boy;  her  tired  boy.  .  .  . 

He  looked  up  into  her  face  at  last.  Her  eyes,  radiant 
with  unspoken  caresses,  were  a  madonna's  .  .  .  twin 
stars  over  a  fretted  sea ;  twin  stars,  in  a  heaven  so  near 
that  he  could  reach  and  touch  it.  Unsteadied,  he  swung 
painfully  to  a  seat  beside  her.  Then,  compelled  by  her 
dominant  eyes,  he  turned  and  faced  her  in  the  shadowy 
hush.  Unsteadily  he  put  out  his  two  arms,  touching  her 
lightly,  fearfully,  upon  the  shoulders,  and  lingering  there. 
The  pressure  of  his  fingers  drew  her  toward  him;  a  pres- 
sure from  no  visible  fingers  pushed  him  inexorably 
toward  her.  He  felt  her  breast  touch  him  softly,  and 
settle  contentedly  against  him.  He  pressed  his  flushed 
face  against  the  soft  neck  and  the  tendrils  of  her  hair; 
his  lips  lay  against  her  flesh,  although  he  did  not  dare 
move  them. 


THE  CLASH  247 

There  was  an  unhurried  rapture  of  stirless  content. 
Half  solaced  for  the  moment,  he  released  her;  but  his 
eyes  could  not  leave  hers,  nor  his  face  move  far  from 
her  own. 

Her  clear  voice  came  to  him  quietly,  with  the  mellow 
reverberations  of  a  gong  touched  in  dusky  stillness. 
"Stupid.  .  .  ."  He  could  not  read  the  half-closed  eyes; 
he  had  to  lean  closer  to  make  out  the  words.  "Is  that 
all.  .  .  .  ?  Must  I  ask  you.  .  .  .  ?" 

His  lips  touched  hers,  closed  upon  them,  clung  there. 
A  giddy  faintness  came  with  the  long-withheld  ardor; 
his  eyes  shut  out  sight,  the  other  senses  ceased  for  the 
moment — the  frantic  remnant  of  his  will  and  conscious- 
ness seeking  to  make  the  moment  perpetual.  His  own 
being  seemed  to  flow  out  and  into  the  other,  he  seemed 
to  absorb  from  the  vital  contact  all  of  the  inestimable 
dearness  that  she  meant  to  him.  This  consummation, 
devoutly  unwished  for  so  long,  was  for  that  reason  in 
its  realization  doubly  dear;  it  brought  an  ecstasy  so 
brimming  that  for  the  time  no  other  sensation  found 
space  to  obtrude. 

Too  soon,  to  his  heart,  the  ecstatic  eternity  ended. 
Suddenly  ashamed  of  her  daring  in  permitting  the  tardy 
rapture,  not  to  think  of  inviting  it,  Jane  drew  back,  re- 
leasing her  tingling  lips  into  a  prim  pucker  of  uncertainty. 
He  sought  her  a  second  time,  quickened  to  an  arrogant 
sense  of  ownership  of  intangible  wonders.  Her  protest 
reached  him:  "We  shouldn't,  Pelham  dear.  .  .  ." 

She  found  her  lips  too  busied  to  frame  more  negative 
commandments,  despite  her  unevenly  ebbing  struggles 
of  protest. 

At  length  his  sense  of  protection  returned;  dizzily  he 
leaned  back,  unstrung,  and  yet  satisfied.  The  night 
noises  pulsed  a  rhythm  fuller,  more  harmoniously  trium- 
phant with  soft  surges  of  loving  certainty,  than  he  had 


248  MOUNTAIN 

ever  felt;  the  pandering  darkness  was  intimate  and  con- 
fidential. With  the  slowing  of  the  unleashed  leap  of 
his  blood,  recollections  of  Louise  Richard  came,  as  he 
had  once  feared;  but  there  was  no  conflict,  no  sense  of 
soilure,  in  the  unreal,  remote  fantasy  of  the  former 
passion;  only  a  sun-high  glory  and  delight  in  this,  as  if 
the  first  had  been  the  needed  soil  in  which  the  plant  of 
love  could  grow  toward  fulfillment. 

Her  ears  caught  his  contented  whisper.  "What  are  a 
thousand  defeats,  Jane  .  .  .  loved  one  .  .  .  when  there 
is  this  at  the  end  of  the  way?" 

"At  the  beginning  of  our  new  way,"  she  amended  with 
sober  joy. 

"It  wipes  out  all  the  irks  and  littlenesses.  .  .  .  Under 
all  our  veneer  and  varnish  of  culture,  business,  politics, 
we  are  man  and  woman  .  .  .  male  and  female  .  .  .  our 
souls  as  nakedly  desirous  as  were  the  first  two  who 
mated.  .  .  .  Loved  one!"  It  rendered  him  inarticulate, 
this  delicious  stirring  up  of  the  hidden  deeps.  It  was 
for  this,  he  was  sure,  that  men  and  women  had  been 
molded;  in  this  surrender  they  yielded  themselves  to 
the  ageless  currents  of  joy-bringing  unity  that  created 
life,  and  continued  it  as  life  itself. 

"I  love  your  hair,"  she  arranged  it  more  to  her  liking. 
"It  fretted  your  eyes,  that  last  speech.  ...  I  wanted  to 
kiss  it  away  .  .  .  then." 


XXI 

'"T^HREE  weeks  after  the  election,  the  cold  set  in.  As 
A  if  to  compensate  for  the  maddening  torridity  of 
July  and  August,  the  biting  tail  of  a  snowstorm  lashed 
bleakly  over  Adamsville.  The  white  flakes  danced  wildly 
along  the  exposed  crest  of  the  mountain,  stinging  sum- 
mer-seasoned skins.  Blasts  whistled  and  shrieked,  pil- 
ing the  chill  drifts  along  the  rutty  streets  of  Hewintown, 
sifting  through  sacks  roofing  the  gaps  in  the  shack 
shingles. 

Then  a  day  of  thaw,  deepening  the  roads  into  a  cold 
slushiness ;  and  that  night  a  downburst  of  rain  and  hail, 
that  cased  trees,  shrubs,  hill-paths  in  a  glittering  coating 
of  ice.  The  brittle  walks  cut  into  feet  whose  shoes  lacked 
soling,  the  slippery  steeps  flung  weakened  women  and 
men  against  pointed  rocks,  adding  to  the  already  over- 
worked Charities  the  chill  cruelties  of  winter. 

"Where's  your  overcoat,  Ben,  in  this  weather?"  Pel- 
ham  asked  Wilson,  now  out  on  bail,  as  they  passed  on 
the  stiffened  sidewalks. 

"Ain't  got  none,  Mr.  Judson.  An'  the  wife's  down  with 
the  T.  B.,  an'  no  blankets  in  the  house." 

"I've  got  an  extra  coat ;  come  on  in  to  the  office.  .  .  . 
I'll  phone  Miss  Lauderdale  about  your  people  before  we 
go  to  town." 

"There's  hundreds  like  us;  you  know  charity  can't 
stretch  very  far.  What  these  boys  need  is  justice." 

Pelham  marveled  at  the  untaught  vision  that  could 
broaden  its  individual  suffering  into  universal  under- 
standing. 

249 


250  MOUNTAIN 

Wilson  had  not  exaggerated  the  matter.  The  white 
plague  gained  on  undernourished  men,  their  lungs  rotted 
with  underground  damp  and  dust;  on  anemic  wives  and 
mothers;  on  starved  shadows  of  children  and  feebly 
crying  babies. 

Each  death  piled  higher  their  sullen  hatred  of  the 
company.  The  overcoated  deputies  boasted  of  their 
huge  feeding,  and  treated  with  growing  insolence  the 
wives  and  daughters  of  the  men.  Powder  was  being 
laid  for  another  explosion,  in  spite  of  Dawson's  frantic 
efforts  to  keep  the  strikers  steady. 

A  worried  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the  companies 
was  called  to  consider  the  continuing  deadlock.  "That 
man  Dawson  is  the  trouble,"  Paul  announced  briefly  to 
the  chairman.  "Get  rid  of  him,  and  the  backbone  of  the 
strike  is  permanently  dislocated.  He's  a  born  mischief- 
stirrer." 

"Pity  he  can't  be  hung.  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  Or  tarred  and  feathered." 

Judge  Florence  reminisced  from  the  head  of  the 
table :  "In  '68  we  knew  what  to  do  with  such  riff-raff." 

"It  can  be  handled,"  Dudley  Randolph  inserted  bland- 
ly. "He  isn't  popular  with  many  of  the  men,  as  it  is. 
The  local  unions  despise  him.  Let  me  have  the  matter 
.  .  .  investigated.  He  won't  trouble  us  long." 

"Good." 

"Your  son  is  a  bit  troublesome  too,  Mr.  Judson,"  con- 
fessed Henry  Tuttle.  "Too  bad  he  should  be  tangled  up 
in  it.  This  thing's  got  to  be  settled;  with  these  new 
English  orders,  it's  suicide  for  us  to  withhold  any  force 
that  can  stop  this  criminal  strike." 

Kane  looked  sideways  at  Paul  Judson,  who  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  table.  The  satellite  spoke  up  uncertainly. 
"I'll  tell  you  something — privately — about  him,  that  can 
stop  his  talking  ...  if  we  must  use  it." 


THE  CLASH  251 

Tuttle  nodded,  after  a  glance  at  the  inscrutable  down- 
cast gaze  of  the  vice-president. 

"Is  there  anyone  else?"  said  the  chairman.  "That 
lawyer,  Spence?" 

"No,"  said  Tuttle,  decidedly.  "He's  a  lawyer;  a 
lawyer  thinks  as  his  clients  do,"  and  he  smiled  acidly. 
"Bivens,  of  the  Voice  of  Labor,  Bowden,  Pooley,  em- 
ploy him.  He  won't  risk  losing  his  livelihood  ...  or  go 
further  than  they  will." 

"It's  time,  Henry,"  Paul  addressed  the  corporation 
counsel,  "to  go  ahead  with  our  scheme.  We've  won  the 
election;  minor  matters  can  be — er,  investigated,  or 
otherwise  handled.  But  as  long  as  the  strike  lasts,  we 
are  losing;  our  profit  sheets  show  it.  First  your  move, 
then  .  .  .  the  militia.  I  advised  it  long  ago,  you  remem- 
ber." 

The  meeting  closed  with  the  uncomfortable,  and  fre- 
quent, impression  that,  as  usual,  Paul  Judson's  sight 
alone  had  visioned  correctly  future  troubles — and  their 
remedies. 

The  last  week  of  November  saw  the  playing  of  the 
withheld  card.  Hurrying  clerks  of  Tuttle  and  Mabry 
served  on  each  houseowner  the  final  notice  of  eviction, 
granted  suddenly  by  County  Judge  Little. 

Roscoe  Little,  one  of  the  Jackson  family  of  that  name, 
held  a  perpetual  lien  on  the  judgeship  because  of  his  tri- 
umphant spinelessness.  He  had  never  been  known  to 
express  a  decided  opinion  on  either  side  of  a  question; 
a  weak-eyed  hail-fellow-well-met,  with  a  chin  like  the 
German  crown  prince,  he  spent  his  mornings  ruling  in 
favor  of  corporation  attorneys,  his  afternoons  absorbing 
comic  weeklies  and  whiskey-and-sodas  at  the  University 
Club.  He  was  unmarried;  facetious  barristers  insisted 
that  he  could  not  commit  himself  even  in  affairs  of  the 
heart. 


252  MOUNTAIN 

There  was  nothing  for  the  miners  to  do  but  move ;  the 
rifles  of  the  augmented  deputies  were  an  unanswerable 
persuasion.  A  few  miles  up  the  valley  the  gray  sand- 
stone hill  behind  the  mountain  was  undeveloped.  Spence 
secured  the  land  at  a  slight  rental,  and  here  tents  and 
scrap-timber  shacks  did  something  to  keep  out  the  bit- 
ter winds  of  winter. 

Pelham  helped  in  the  moving,  as  did  many  of  the  so- 
cialists. Old  Peter  came  up  to  him  in  Hewintown  the 
last  day.  "Mornin',  Mr.  Pelham." 

"What  you  doing  here,  Peter?" 

The  ancient  negro  pointed  with  pride  to  the  shined 
badge  on  his  coat.  "Dey  done  made  me  a  deppity,  dey 
is." 

Pelham  turned  off. 

"Mr.  Pelham,  ole  Tom  Cole  done  come  back." 

"Not  dead  yet?" 

"You  cain't  kill  'im.  Dey  cut  'im  open,  but  he  growed 
back  agin.  He  am  powerful  sickly,  do'.  De  Ole  Boy'll 
cotch  him  nex'  time;  he  nacherally  favors  preachers." 

"But  not  company  deputies,  Peter?" 

The  negro  chuckled  off;  Pelham  walked  back  with 
Dawson  from  the  new  shack  village.  The  big  organizer 
was  thoroughly  out  of  spirits.  "It  just  ain't  moving, 
Judson." 

"What's  especially  wrong?" 

"The  negro  question,  for  one  thing." 

"I  know,"  Pelham  said  slowly.  "Our  white  labor 
won't  assimilate  them,  as  the  rest  of  the  country's  labor 
does  to  the  most  backward  white  races.  They're  a  per- 
petual scab  menace." 

"Hell,  yes,"  in  sobered  agreement.  "Then,  the  South's 
general  backwardness." 

"That's  natural,  here.  Our  capitalists,  some  of  the 
slave-owning  blood,  and  all  inheriting  its  attitude,  feel 


THE  CLASH  253 

less  equality:  they  see  labor  still  as  their  slaves.  Ulti- 
mately this  will  help  awaken  our  people ;  but  now " 

"That's  the  hell  of  it ;  we  ain't  got  the  public  with  us. 
What  with  petty  union  squabbles,  and  all — it's  a  job  to 
make  a  dent  in  a  saint's  patience." 

"Any  chance  of  a  sympathetic  strike?" 

"What  can  you  do  with  Bowden  and  these  yellow 
pups  ?" 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  workers,  dragged  down  physi- 
cally by  the  hard  rigors,  slipped  lower  and  lower.  Pick- 
eting continued,  and  each  arrival  of  new  trainloads  of 
northern  scabs  threatened  a  break;  but  something  of  the 
original  zest  had  gone. 

Pelham,  however,  found  a  compensating  zest,  in  which 
life  overpaid  him  for  the  wintry  gloom  at  strike  head- 
quarters. After  a  glum  day  with  the  dispirited  leaders 
he  could  count  upon  a  solace  that  overbalanced  worry  and 
sorrow ;  downhearted  planning  for  the  intransigent 
struggle  gave  way  to  warm-hearted  dusk  dreams  of  a 
future  bent  to  heart's  will;  the  mines  and  miners  were 
deserted  for  Jane. 

"It  doesn't  seem  fair,  dearest  dear,  for  us  to  be  so 
unreasonably  happy,  when  Ben  Wilson,  and  his  tuber- 
cular wife,  and  all  the  rest,  have  so  little.  .  .  ." 

"Your  father  isn't  a  happy  man." 

".  .  .  No.  He  may  have  been  as  happy  as  we,  once; 
fancy  him  as  a  young  lover!  There  is  a  price  for  am- 
bition centered  in  grasping  things :  the  soul  dries  up  and 
shrivels." 

"Poor  man !" 

"This  is  the  real  wealth.  .  .  ." 

He  took  her  within  his  arms.  At  home  in  his  kiss,  her 
lips  parted  slightly  within  his,  like  a  bud  daring  to  offer 
its  tenderest  petals  to  the  crush  of  the  enveloping  wind. 
When  he  let  her  go,  he  lay  slack  with  delicious  unrest. 


254  MOUNTAIN 

Abruptly  he  sat  up,  a  decisive  ring  in  his  voice.  "I'm 
going  to  marry  you,  Jane." 

"I  had  hoped  so."  She  could  not  prevent  the  dimple 
from  smiling  within  her  rounded  cheek. 

"I  mean — now !" 

"To-night?" 

"I'll  get  the  license  to-morrow,  adorable  child — and 
we  can  have  Dr.  Gulley,  or  the  mayor " 

"Let's  have  His  Honor!  An  Irish  blessing  isn't  to  be 
scoffed  at,  and  the  Free  Tabernaclers,  as  rebels,  are  a  bit 
pallid.  'The  Courthouse  Wedding' — how  your  mother 
will  relish  that !" 

"They  wouldn't  come  anyhow " 

"It  isn't  that ;  but  they've  gotten  so  used  to  your  shock- 
ing them,  that  life  would  lose  its  savor  if  you  couldn't 
achieve  a  fresh  shock  every  month  or  two.  I'm  glad 
my  new  suit  came " 

"As  if  that  made  any  difference!" 

"Ah,  it  will  make  a  lot — to  His  Honor,  for  instance, 
and  whatever  reporters  carry  word  of  it  to  the  society 
editresses.  'A  dove-colored  traveling  suit/  they'll  call 
it " 

"Wouldn't  red  be  more  appropriate?"  he  queried  ju- 
diciously. "With  the  local  en  masse  as  best  man,  and 
the  Suffrage  Association  as  matron  of  honor ' 

"Don't  be  horrid.  I'll  have  Mrs.  Anderson,  and  you 
can  bring  along  your  precious  Lane  Cullom,  who  is  so 
sure  that  Nellie  Tolliver  would  be  much  better  for  you." 

"It's  almost  a  Christmas  wedding!  We'll  steal  off 
for  that  week  to  Pascagoula  and  New  Orleans  we  men- 
tioned. We  could  take  the  Gulf  Express  to-morrow 
night — you  have  a  time  table ;  I  brought  it  out  last  month, 
when  we  aircastled  on  honeymoons.  .  .  .  But  just  think, 
if  you  hadn't  scorned  the  country  club,  you  might  have 
had  either  of  the  Birrell  boys,  or " 


THE  CLASH  255 

"You  angler!  It's  not  too  late.  .  .  .  No;  I  have  the 
pick  of  the  bunch." 

"Jane,  my  .  .  .  wife."  There  was  comfort  and  joy 
in  the  word. 

Considering  the  matter  alone,  he  was  delighted  he  had 
dared  the  plunge.  It  was  not  easy,  now,  to  prevent  yield- 
ing to  the  watchful  voices  ever  whispering  to  him,  wak- 
ened by  Dorothy  Meade,  refired  by  the  rocketing  af- 
fair with  Louise,  and  now  restirred  by  Jane  herself.  He 
had  even  wandered  once  or  twice  down  Butler's  Avenue 
and  the  furtive  alleys  behind,  obsessed  with  red-lit  im- 
aginings of  what  went  on  behind  those  night-lighted  win- 
dows. His  aggressive  purism  had  left  him;  love  should 
be  freely  given  and  taken,  he  told  himself.  And  it  was 
to  be  his ! 

Odd  that  he  had  suggested  New  Orleans,  when  Louise 
Richard  might  be  there.  ...  It  was  a  relief  that  that 
affair  was  dead.  .  .  .  This  was  to-day;  the  to-morrows 
were  Jane's. 

After  his  departure  Jane  located  the  time-table.  She 
studied  the  formal  details  dreamily.  To-morrow  night, 
by  this  time,  they  would  be  ...  And  when  they  had 
passed  this  place,  and  that,  what  would  they  be  saying? 
What  doing? 

The  black  and  white  schedule  merited  respect ;  it  would 
time  their  first  day  .  .  .  night  .  .  .  together. 

She  laid  it  aside  with  a  blush;  then,  bidding  her  fan- 
cies behave,  she  read  over  the  unemotional  schedule 
until  she  knew  it,  appropriately,  by  heart. 

GULF  EXPRESS  P.  M. 


Hazelton 
ADAMSVILLE 


8.07! 
Ar.  8.20 1 


Exercising  the  best  man's  prerogative,  Lane  Cullom 
insisted  upon  having  the  abbreviated  wedding  party  as 


256  MOUNTAIN 

his  guests  at  a  bridal  dinner.  The  chef  at  the  Univer- 
sity Club  grill  lifted  the  covers  promptly  at  six,  in  order 
that  the  Queen  and  Crescent's  prized  express  might  not 
have  to  cool  its  wheels  in  the  new  Union  Station,  wait- 
ing for  the  essential  pair. 

Lane,  a  satisfied  fatigue  relieving  the  crease  in  his 
brow,  almost  missed  the  first  course.  "I  had  to  see  that 
the  eggnog  was  mixed  properly,  Pelham,  before  it  was 
frozen, — soup  or  no  soup." 

The  last  delicious  morsel  melted  upon  their  tongues; 
the  host  paid  a  final  flying  visit  to  the  club's  pantry,  con- 
scripting two  pocketfuls  of  rice.  "Now  let's  go!" 

ADAMSVILLE   |Lv.  8.30 1 

Jane  leaned  over  the  back  railing  of  the  observation 
platform,  as  the  engine  grunted  a  command  to  the  wheels 
to  take  up  their  proletarian  revolutions ;  the  clanged  gate 
quivered  before  her ;  her  husband  stood  at  her  side.  She 
leaned  for  a  final  finger-flutter  to  the  two  friends,  peer- 
ing at  her  out  of  the  golden  haze  thrown  by  the  big 
station  lamps. 

"Good  luck,"  she  called  back.  Her  handful  of  the 
hailed  rice,  scooped  desperately  the  last  minute,  was 
aimed  badly ;  it  baptized  a  bewildered  family,  chiefly  chil- 
dren, still  looking  for  the  obtrusively  obvious  exit. 

"Good  luck,"  Pelham's  deeper  tones  echoed  hers. 

The  oiled  switches,  affectionately  clearing  the  way  for 
the  long  iron  carriage  and  its  coupling  hearts,  creaked 
beneath  them,  as  the  cars  slid  and  jangled  down  the 
yards,  between  the  furnacetown  shanties,  into  the  winter- 
shriven  suburban  streets.  Jane's  placid  smile  followed 
her  man  as  he  joined  two  of  the  comfortable  chairs;  her 
hands  locked  within  his,  her  cheek  rested  against  the 
warm  roughness  of  his,  her  eyes  watched  the  flying  world 


THE  CLASH  257 

curtsey  and  part  behind  them,  then  gradually  coalesce 
into  a  welded  and  blurred  oblivion.  They  were  turning 
their  backs  upon  the  mountain  her  Pelham  loved ;  not 
for  good  .  .  .  yes,  for  good,  but  not  for  all  time. 

West    Adamsville    | 8.37! 

The  mountain  was  going  with  them;  its  inscrutable 
mass,  off  to  the  left,  still  followed,  a  protection  and  a 
reminder.  What  a  boyish  fancy  of  his,  that  it  mothered 
him !  Well,  it  could  safely  leave  the  task  to  her,  Jane  re- 
flected; he  was  worth  mothering — her  first  child.  .  .  . 
A  sudden  freshet  of  tenderness  lifted  her  arm  around 
his  shoulder. 

This  station  they  had  just  left — to  think  that  its  scat- 
tered home-lights  held  striving  hearts  who  had  followed 
her  Pelham  through  the  harsh  campaign,  and  looked  to 
him  as  children  to  their  leader.  And  now  he  was  hers, 
hers !  And  she  would  see  to  it  that  she  kept  him  theirs. 

Hers  ...  as  she  must  be  his.  She  dared  to  inch  her 
fancies  beyond  their  previous  bounds.  As  a  modern 
woman,  she  reminded  herself,  she  knew  from  her  read- 
ing the  essential  facts  of  mated  life;  but  feelings  were 
of  different  breed :  words  could  not  communicate  unfelt 
emotions,  they  could  only  evoke  memories  of  those  for- 
merly experienced.  The  emotional  Atlantic  lay  before 
her.  .  .  .  To-night?  She  could  not  tell. 

Coalstock  | 8.57] 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Geographically.  .  .  .  Reminiscing.  .  .  .  Bragg  Coun- 
ty ends  in  a  few  miles;  my  last  speech,  before  the  final 
one  in  Main  Park,  was  in  the  Elks'  Hall  here." 

She  looked  with  added  interest  at  the  bare  platform, 
the  forlorn  pair  of  station  idlers,  the  morose  baggage 


258  MOUNTAIN 

man  trundling  away  a  lone  trunk.    He  looked  up  as  they 
passed,  started,  took  off  his  hat  to  the  recent  candidate. 

"I  like  that  man,"  she  declared  inconsequentially.  "He 
knows  you." 

The  glassed  spaces  of  the  observation  platform  were 
small  defense  against  the  subtle  penetration  of  the  winter 
night.  The  bland  porter  navigated  down  the  car  aisles, 
bundling  steamer  blankets,  which  radiated  inward  the 
body's  waves  of  heat. 

"The  old  life  dead,  the  glad  new  one  born,"  her  hus- 
band mused  aloud.  "Except  a  man  become  as  a  little 
child  again For  it  is  a  heaven  we  plan." 

"A  democracy,  not  a  kingdom,  dear?" 

"Never  a  kingdom,  unless  with  a  queen  equally  pow- 
ered; and  no  subjects.  The  old  subserviences  are  dying; 
with  us  they  are  dead.  A  real  equality  of  mating;  the 
slave-woman  attitude  gone  forever,  as  we  are  laboring 
on  the  mountain  to  end  the  slave-man  attitude." 

"It  is  a  friendly  old  universe,  dear,  to  fling  us  to- 
gether, on  the  uncertain  upwhirl  of  the  lassoed  earth,  to 
complement  each  other.  .  .  ." 

"Blossom  to  blossom,  bird  to  bird,  man  to  woman,"  he 
paired. 

"Jackson  in  two  hours,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause. 

Was  he  consciously  making  conversation,  to  keep  her 
mind  off  of  what  must  be  the  burden  of  its  agitated 
thinking,  the  growing  tumult  stirred  and  heightened  by 
the  night's  resistless  progress  toward  their  own  intimate 
morning?  She  appreciated  the  diversion;  soon  he  was 
deep  in  the  rich  memories  of  easy  Jackson  days. 

Her  mind  twisted  over  other  matters  at  the  same  time. 
Marriage  meant  so  little  to  a  man,  compared  to  what  it 
meant  to  a  woman!  Pelham,  she  believed,  was  chaste; 
he  had  told  her  so.  There  was  no  way  of  knowing.  But 
love  accomplished  changed  woman  irrevocably.  It 


THE  CLASH  259 

seemed  unfair.  She  re-breathed  a  silent  prayer  that  she 
would  not  find  him  coarse  .  .  .  even  a  little.  It  had  been 
disillusioned  Dorothy  who  had  warned  her  that  all  men 
were.  .  .  .  Not  her  man. 

Twice  the  porter  had  opened  the  door  with  suggestive 
obtrusiveness ;  it  must  be  nearly  eleven.  Shivering  with 
a  disquiet  almost  unbearable,  she  responded  to  the  caress- 
ing modulations  in  his  voice,  as  he  told  of  his  childhood ; 
even  though  its  warmth  was  caused  by  recollections  of 
other  arms  than  her  own.  His  deep  affection  for  his 
mother,  despite  the  occasional  flippancy  he  used  now,  was 
no  secret  to  the  wife. 

The  whistle  wailed  rhythmically  across  the  level  stubble 
fields. 

His  face  lit  up.  "That  was  Newtown  we  whizzed 
by ;  my  father  started  it.  Hideous  place !"  But  the  tone 
was  affectionate. 

Jackson     | n.Q2| 

He  consulted  his  watch;  they  were  running  four  min- 
utes behind. 

As  the  train  picked  up  speed,  his  eyes  bored  the  ob- 
scurity. "That  dark  place  .  .  .  somewhere  there  is  the 
road  to  Uncle  Jimmy  Harbour's  farm.  You'll  see  it  all 
with  me  soon,  dearest  dear." 

She  looked  ahead  toward  the  darkness  he  indicated. 
Now  they  had  plunged  past  it. 

She  heard  the  porter  approach  for  the  third  time. 
Pelham's  tone  was  a  trifle  uneven.  "The  state-room's 
made  up  ?  Thanks  very  much.  Will  you  call  us  in  time 
for  Pascagoula?" 

Us!  ...  Jane's  heart  thumped;  she  wondered  if  his 
ears  could  fail  to  hear  it. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  slowly,  "will  you  go  in?  ...  I'll 
come  in  half  an  hour.  .  .  .  Will  that  be  enough  ?" 


260  MOUNTAIN 

Her  reply  was  so  low,  she  wondered  if  he  could  have 
heard.  He  held  her  to  him  for  a  moment,  as  if  unhappy 
to  lose  one  moment  of  her.  And  then  she  shut  the  door, 
and  turned  into  the  lighted  isolation  of  the  stateroom, 
soon  to  offer  her  to  a  panicky  common  publicity. 

.  .  .  She  heard  him  open  the  outer  door;  her  flurried 
fingers  summoned  the  unbetraying  darkness. 

A.M. 
Lower   Peachtree    | 4.10 1 

Jane  stared  out  of  the  bare  three  inches  of  the  misted 
window ;  she  had  raised  the  curtain  that  much.  The 
train  was  gaining  momentum  again.  The  unbroken  night 
sped  by;  only  her  imagination  could  give  it  form  and 
life.  The  unbroken  future  lay  ahead ;  drowsily  she  re- 
flected that  only  her  imagination,  her  shaping  hand,  could 
mold  it  to  the  heaven  they  both  desired.  Pelham  was  at 
last  asleep  .  .  .  her  husband  was  asleep.  .  .  . 

Her  hand  lowered  the  curtain  again.  Facing  the  chill 
blackness  without  the  window,  she  tried  to  drowse  off. 
At  length  she  turned  toward  him,  for  the  moment  absent, 
yet  still  tangibly  hers.  She  snuggled  into  the  warmer 
place  by  his  side,  touching  him  to  make  sure  he  was  still 
there. 


MOBILE 
MOBILE 


•Ar.  445 
•Lv.  4.53 


There  was  no  consciousness  stirring  in  the  breathing 
state-room,  to  note  the  stop  and  the  few  belated  night- 
travelers  for  the  western  gulf  region.  But  in  their 
dreams  these  two,  separated  by  sleep,  were  again  united. 
There  was  a  smile  playing  across  Jane's  cheek;  and  a 
deep  content  resting  upon  Pelham's  face. 

East  Pascagoula   | 7.01 1 

Pelham  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  his  face  downcast 


THE  CLASH  261 

in  mock  despair.  "You  make  me  feel  so  useless,  Jane! 
Not  even  a  dress  to  hook  up  the  back " 

Altering  a  final  hatpin,  she  smiled  a  query  to  him. 
"Is  it  on  straight,  beloved?  The  train  wobbles  so.  .  .  . 
Dresses  were  hooked  up  the  back  ten  years  ago ;  of 
course,  you've  had  practice  on  Mother  Judson's.  .  .  . 
Stand  up  a  moment."  With  great  gravity  she  read- 
justed his  stick-pin.  "There!" 

He  pulled  her  to  the  window.  "Look — Back  Bayou! 
Though  it's  really  a  pudgy  finger  of  the  gulf.  And 
schooners  .  .  .  this  side.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  gorgeous?" 

The  train,  perched  on  a  spidery  trestle,  crawled  high 
above  the  sloshing  waves,  broken  by  blackened  oyster- 
bed  stakes  and  a  skiff  slapping  against  the  dismembered 
head  of  a  narrow  pier.  Seabirds  rose  in  glancing  curves, 
the  red  face  of  the  sun  lit  the  waters  on  both  sides  of 
the  three-masters  tacking  out  beyond  Horn  Island.  Ab- 
ruptly the  water  was  blotted  out  at  the  end  of  the  bridge 
by  stumpy  sedge  fields,  stretching  to  a  fringe  of  low 
pines  framing  the  sparkling  water  beyond  .  .  .  then  trim 
white  houses.  The  train  slowed. 

Pascagoula    | 7.13) 

"Here  we  are,"  Pelham's  joyful  tones  fathered  the 
last  of  the  luggage,  laboriously  lowered  by  the  stout 
porter. 

The  husband  beckoned  the  nearest  hackman,  a  darky 
patriarch  venerable  as  his  grizzle-flanked  steed.  "The 
Ocean  House,  please." 

Jane  settled  into  Pelham's  crescenting  arm. 

"We're  here,"  he  added  fatuously.     "Isn't  it " 

"Glorious !" 

They  stared  ahead  together,  to  the  sandy  beach  and 
the  sun-glitter  of  the  water. 


XXII 

"PASCAGOULA  and  the  gulf  towns  boast  themselves, 
•*•  quite  properly,  as  warm  weather  resorts.  Jane,  com- 
ing from  a  northern  city,  had  never  quite  understood  how 
Southerners  could  go  further  south  for  the  summer ;  but 
the  immediate  sight  of  this  resort  in  winter  convinced 
her.  Pascagoula  in  December  was  kin  to  Coney  Island  in 
March — a  background  built  of  flimsy,  emptied  by  the 
chill;  a  tenantless  shell,  whose  pleasure-seekers  hiber- 
nated elsewhere,  to  more  substantial  shelter.  It  had  its 
own  incongruous  charm  for  lovers,  who  never  mourn 
at  isolation. 

There  was  a  thoughtful  delight  in  tempting  the  shaky 
remnants  of  wharves,  broken  and  scattered  by  the  whip- 
lash of  the  last  equinoctial  storms,  and  as  yet  not  rebuilt. 
They  visited  by  launch  the  breakwater  islands,  Horn  Is- 
land with  its  fishing  colony,  Deer  Island's  populous  turtle 
farms,  and  the  lighthouses  and  dismantled  fort  upon  the 
sandy  spit  called  Ship  Island.  Here  they  walked  a  beach 
littered  with  curled  conchs,  horseshoe  crab  shells,  and 
debris  from  the  deeper  waters  washed  up  for  a  glassy- 
eyed  view  at  the  hitherto  unseen  sun. 

By  electric  line  they  touched  at  Beauvoir  for  an  after- 
noon— Beauvoir,  as  surely  of  the  Old  South  as  the  de- 
caying mansions  at  Jackson ;  a  great-pillared  white  house 
back  in  a  grove  of  giant  leafless  oaks.  Its  ample  spaces 
and  huge  hand-hewn  beams  belonged  less  to  the  faded 
Confederate  soldiers  and  their  wives  tenanting  it  than  to 
its  memories  of  Jefferson  Davis,  that  passionate  advocate 

262 


THE  CLASH  263 

of  slavery,  whose  name  is  enshrined  beside  the  warrior 
leaders  of  the  buried  cause. 

"We  can  enjoy  the  firm  beauty  of  the  place — it  is  so 
alien,  so  remote,"  Jane  meditated,  as,  her  arm  upon  his 
shoulder,  she  turned  Pelham  for  a  last  view  at  the  mauso- 
leum of  gray  hopes.  "Like  the  Punic  war ;  or  the  time- 
blotted  conquests  of  the  Incas,  before  the  Spaniards 
came." 

"Yes;  their  cause,  with  their  time,  has  grown  unreal. 
Slavery  is  almost  prehistoric,  with  the  modern  battles 
upon  us.  Old  Grandfather  Judson  knew  Jeff  Davis,  and 
visited  here.  .  .  .  Thank  God  the  South  didn't  win !" 

"Slavery  would  have  died  its  natural  death  anyway." 

"But  union  was  worth  while.  .  .  .  Isn't  it,  dear- 
est?" 

She  pressed  his  arm  appreciatively. 

They  spent  the  rest  of  the  week  in  New  Orleans.  Du- 
ring these  days  his  untried  fantasies  changed  to  reality, 
with  the  gradual  knowledge  of  this  lithe,  lovely  girl  be- 
side him,  who  had,  by  some  freak  of  good  fortune,  given 
herself  to  him  .  .  .  taken  him  for  her  mate.  It 
was  hard  to  avoid  the  rut  of  old  phrasings  of  the  ever- 
new  relationship. 

Out  of  the  thick  turmoil  of  the  French  Market  and  the 
gaudy  fittings  of  the  Hotel  Iberville  they  found  their  way 
to  the  river,  and  wandered  up  its  leisurely  levee.  The 
ancient  lure  of  the  sea  spoke  in  the  rank  smell  of  drying 
nets  and  decaying  barnacles  on  the  tide-abandoned  piles, 
of  redolent  fishing  catboats  and  tarry  roping.  She  curled 
behind  him  on  a  solitary  bale  of  cotton  awaiting  belated 
shipment,  staring  out  at  the  muddy  water,  and  the  tan- 
gled masts  and  rigging  up  and  down  stream. 

"How  would  you  like  to  sail  the  seven  seas  ?"  she  asked 
idly.  "Down  this  river,  over  the  gulf  and  the  Caribbean, 
and  then  out  across  the  unroaded  way  of  the  world's 


264  MOUNTAIN 

ocean?"  Watching  him  dust  his  feather-gray  ash  on  a 
splintery  beam,  she  shielded  a  lighted  match  to  give  new 
life  to  the  moist  brown  mass  packed  within  the  bowl. 

"With  you  along?" 

"That  would  be  yours  to  say.  You  must  remain  free, 
as  I  am ;  if  love  lasts,  yes ;  if  not " 

"And  that  very  freedom,  that  modern  marriage  in- 
cludes, adds  preciousness  to  love;  the  danger  of  losing 
forges  a  stronger  bond." 

"Thus  freedom  involves  a  slavery  greater,  because  vol- 
untary. Where  my  heart  is,  I  am  content  to  serve,"  she 
smiled. 

But  something  within  her  doubted  how  deep  this  shrin- 
ing of  freedom  went.  She  had  noticed,  at  last  night's 
opera,  an  attractive  girl  in  another  box  bow  to  her  hus- 
band with  provoking  familiarity.  "Louise  Richard,  a 
friend  of  Lane  Cullom's,"  he  had  explained ;  "I  met  her  in 
Adamsville."  But  .  .  .  her  husband!  If  any  wo- 
man presumed  to  get  free  with  him,  modernism  would  be 
flung  aside  for  primitive  emotions.  Mating  bred  posses- 
sion. .  .  .  He  was  such  a  lover!  She  smiled  a  per- 
verse thanksgiving  that  he  was — a  little — coarse.  Love 
must  be  planted  in  the  earth,  to  grow  toward  the  stars. 

Pelham's  thought  drove  down  a  not  dissimilar  chan- 
nel. Of  course  Jane  was  entitled  to  hold  to  her  idea  of 
freedom;  there  was  little  chance  of  her  ever  wanting  to 
make  it  more  than  an  idea.  But  let  a  man  dare  sneak  into 
her  affections,  and  there  would  be  an  immediate  casualty 
list,  which  would  not  include  a  descendant  of  the  Jud- 
sons.  He  was  amused  at  the  bloodthirsty  throwback; 
nevertheless,  he  would  do  something.  .  .  .  His  thought 
recurred  to  the  sight  of  Louise  Richard,  between 
the  acts  at  the  theater;  how  incomparably  superior  Jane 
was!  And  yet.  .  .  .  Freedom  in  love  had  its  com- 


THE  CLASH  265 

pensations.  .  .  .  Louise  had  said  something  about  re- 
visiting Adamsville.  ...  At  once  he  put  the  half- 
formed  fancy  out  of  his  mind;  Jane  was  enough,  now 
and  henceforth. 

He  returned,  at  a  tangent,  to  the  former  subject.  "Just 
as  you  are  free  to  remain  skeptical  about  socialism,  while 
I  am  of  it." 

"Not  skeptical,  Pelham;  but  .  .  .  Put  it  this  way. 
It  hasn't  the  overwhelming  importance  to  me  that  it  has 
to  you.  To  me,  woman's  cause  comes  first ;  with  suffrage 
an  essential  incident.  I  do  see  that  socialism  doesn't  go 
to  the  roots  of  everything." 

He  exclaimed  lazily,  "Of  course  not!  And  I  like,  more 
and  more,  your  idea,  that  floated  hazily  out  one  night — 
that  geography  lay  beneath  all  the  economic  forces  we 
socialists  orate  over." 

"On  behalf  of  my  intelligence,  I  thank  you,"  she  teased. 

"Silly !  The  idea  is  underneath  Marx  and  the  rest ;  but 
it  hasn't  been  said  clearly  yet.  I've  dipped  into  more 
American  history,  these  workless  weeks ;  it  fits  amazingly 
there.  .  .  . 

"This  stuff  the  professors  wax  magniloquent  over,  that 
America  was  planned  as  a  land  of  freedom !  Mere  fudge 
and  fury !  Who  planned  it  free  ?  The  Spaniards,  arro- 
gant haters  of  the  common  people?  The  paternalistic 
French?  The  Dutch  and  Swedes,  just  as  committed  to 
autocracy?  .  .  ." 

"There  were  the  'freedom-loving  Englishmen'  .  .  ." 

"Jamestown,  settled  by  gold-hunting,  venturesome  gen- 
tlemen of  King  James'  Court !  So  Maryland,  and  the 
Carolinas ;  with  Georgia  merely  to  give  an  opportunity 
for  homeland  failures  to  build  a  younger  England,  casted 
as  the  old.  Plymouth,  all  of  New  England,  except  Rhode 
Island,  wanted  merely  State  Puritanism,  under  the  old 


266  MOUNTAIN 

feudal  system.  Roger  Williams  was  an  exception; 
Penn's  inner  light  saw  a  vision  of  ultimate  democracy. 
But — two  out  of  thirteen !" 

"No,  it  wasn't  planning  that  made  democracy  and  free- 
dom our  spreadeagle  catchwords,"  she  agreed. 

"It  was  the  land,"  he  took  up  the  thread.  "The  land 
has  expressed  itself,  and  will  express  itself  more  mag- 
nificently in  the  future,  in  the  achieved  reality  of 
those  Fourth  of  July  slogans.  Pioneer  hardships  de- 
velop men  equal  in  their  labors  and  their  needs ;  crude  de- 
mocracy thrives  along  civilization's  frontiers.  The  rest- 
less Arabs,  the  migratory  Israelites,  grew  brotherhood  as 
self-protection.  Europe's  cramping  strait-jackets  could 
not  fit  empty  miles  of  prairie,  or  stream  and  mountain 
and  farm-land  ready  to  mint  gold  when  man's  labor  was 
poured  on  them." 

"The  idea  helps  clear  history,"  she  helped  on  the  mood. 
"Protected  Egypt  and  Babylon,  guarded  by  desert  and 
sea  and  swamp,  grew  a  hot-housed  tyranny  because  of 
their  over-fertile  rivers;  somewhat  as  New  Orleans 
here." 

"To  show  the  influence  another  way,  I've  often  thought 
of  this  parallel.  Compare  the  languages  of  Europe  and 
America.  The  Eskimo,  harshly  explosive  and  guttural, 
corresponds  to  the  Russian;  the  freezing  air  chops 
off  the  final  syllable  into  a  bark  or  cough.  The  dialects 
of  the  Iroquois  and  northern  Algonquins  are  similar  to  the 
harshness  of  Teutonic  and  Scandinavian  countries;  the 
soft  melodiousness  of  Spanish,  French,  Italian,  is  found 
in  words  like  'Miami,'  'Appalachicola/  'Tuscaloosa/ 
'Monongahela,'  with  their  easy  liquids  and  lazy  final 
vowels.  The  country  itself  creates  the  language,  the 
facial  expressions,  the  bodies  and  habits  of  men." 

"That's  true — and  new,  to  me.  Of  course  it's  a  plati- 
tude that  the  little  fragments  of  Greece,  locked  apart  by 


THE  CLASH  267 

mountain  and  sea,  were  themselves  the  cause  preventing 
Greece  from  uniting  into  a  great  nation " 

"Just  as  the  long  western  field  of  Italy  fitted  her  to  be 
a  unifying  world  power." 

She  confessed,  "I've  since  found  the  same  idea  ex- 
panded charmingly  by  Fairgrieve.  Phoenicia  and  Israel 
were  important  because  they  were  on  the  way  connecting 
the  Nile  to  the  twin  rivers " 

"The  earth's  hand  is  in  it  all.  Great  cities  follow  the 
rivers,  or  the  newer  streams  of  iron  we  call  railroads; 
civilizations  grow  where  differing  cultures  touch,  as  at  the 
meeting  of  Asia,  Europe,  and  Africa.  Think  what  its 
location — sea-walled  and  sea-warmed — has  made  of  the 
island  miles  of  England !  .  .  .  Mountains  breed  free- 
dom-lovers; my  mountain  made  me." 

"My  thanks  to  it !    It  has  stirred  up  trouble " 

"Yes."  He  continued  slowly,  "All  we  have  been 
through  in  Adamsville — that  was  only  the  mountain 
speaking  through  its  human  mouthpieces.  Our  country's 
first  democracy  was  squabbling  competition;  then  came 
selfish  cooperation,  for  the  few  on  top:  trusts  and  mo- 
nopolies. The  hill's  rich  heart  expresses  that  in  the  min- 
ing companies  ...  in  my  father.  But  it  gives 
enough  worth  to  the  plain  man  to  allow  him  to  unite  with 
his  fellows,  and  mold  this  destructive  selfishness  into 
saner  brotherhood,  wider  cooperation — the  labor  move- 
ment, groping  after  democracy ;  I  and  the  others  are  the 
mountain  speaking  in  that.  It  is  the  prime  mover,  the 
hero  and  the  villain,  shifting  us  about  at  its  will  to  ex- 
press all  that  lies  hidden  in  its  rich  interior." 

"We  must  make  it  join  the  local.  ...  I  hope  it 
favors  suffrage." 

"Joyful  joker!" 

"I  like  what  you  say  about  the  vastness  of  America," 
she  repeated. 


268  MOUNTAIN 

"More  than  vastness.  It  has  the  proper  balance  of 
material  that  yields  not  too  easily,  so  that  an  Egyptian 
race  of  slaves  must  follow;  nor  with  such  difficulty  that 
it  must  remain  like  the  backward  Eskimos.  Its  men 
and  women  will  be  self-sure,  mentally  able  to  build  de- 
mocracy in  industry,  in  government,  in  everything.  What 
a  world,  when  we  grow  up  to  our  words — when  classes 
blend  into  one  class  of  worthy  men  and  women ' 

"Supermen?" 

"Another  way  of  saying  it.  ...  When  exploita- 
tion is  ended,  when  we  produce  for  need  and  not  profit, 
when  a  man's  highest  selfishness  will  be  to  serve  all,  not 
pile  up  a  backyard  hoard  of  gold.  Call  it  socialism  or 
what  you  please,  it  will  come;  it  is  self-planted  by  and 
in  our  soil.  The  mountain  will  win,  in  the  long  run,  not 
for  its  despoiler,  but  for  all  of  its  red-handed,  ore-stained 
children.  Work  will  be  distributed,  life  lengthened, 
wealth  and  joy  evened " 

"A  big  program  cut  out  for  Mr.  Pelham  Judson !" 

"Not  for  me,  heavens,  no !  I  can  only  do  my  little  part. 
It  will  use  me  .  .  .  just  as  it  has  used  poor  Babe 
Cole,  dead  on  the  railroad  track,  or  his  brothers,  dead  in 
the  explosion  and  the  shooting;  just  as  it  uses  even  Dick 
Sumter,  Henry  Tuttle,  incredible  little  Roscoe  Little, 
whose  judicial  rompers  are  merely  a  materialization  of 
the  greed  of  the  corporations.  All  of  their  rich  thefts  will 
be  taken  from  them,  when  the  scales  have  finally  ad- 
justed themselves.  .  .  ." 

"Nice  old  earth !"  She  patted  the  post  beside  her  af- 
fectionately. "Just  like  a  big  brown  doggie !  We  think, 
and  bother ;  and  to  it  we  are  no  more  than  irritations  on 
its  skin,  or  little  insects  bred  of  it  there.  Our  stirring 
annoys  it:  Vesuvius  and  Pele,  or  an  earthquake.  .  .  . 
The  old  world  sniffs  and  snuffles  down  the  fenced  sky, 


THE  CLASH  269 

leashed  to  the  sun,  its  rope  always  a  little  shorter.  .  .  . 
And  a  good  warm  sleep  to  it  at  the  end,  before  cold  night 
sets  in." 

Pelham  shook  his  head  in  despair.  "You  say  it  so 
much  better  than  I — the  final  word.  .  .  ." 

"Come  on,  if  we're  to  take  that  trip  to  Lake  Pontchar- 
train  before  night."  She  prodded  him  off  the  bale,  link- 
ing a  comradely  arm  within  his.  "You  notice  that  wo- 
man's 'final'  word,  as  always,  is  followed  by  man's  lament 
that  she  says  the  last  thing.  No,"  as  he  sought  to  answer, 
"it  needs  no  footnote.  At  least  I  have  you  to  myself 
this  week,  before  the  mountain  woos  you  from  me 
again." 

Tired  by  the  flat  miles  of  rice-fields,  swamp-land,  and 
bayou,  they  returned  to  the  haven  of  the  hotel.  Pelham 
had  the  elevator  wait  while  he  secured  an  armful  of  local 
papers. 

"Nothing  from  Adamsville,"  scanning  the  pages  rap- 
idly, unaware  how  the  mountain  still  held  him.  "Noth- 
ing. .  .  .  Here  it  is.  Another  fight,  with  the  invariable 
demand  for  the  militia." 

"You  don't  think  they'll " 

"I  certainly  hope  not.    That  would  cause  a  smash-up/' 

The  week  ended ;  the  return  began.  Just  above  Lower 
Peachtree,  they  secured  an  early  edition  of  the  Times- 
Dispatch,  and  found  that  the  strike  shared  first-page 
headlines  with  the  elaborate  plans  for  the  iron  city's  semi- 
centennial. The  attack  was  more  serious  than  the  out- 
of-town  papers  had  reported.  Two  guards,  three  strike- 
breakers, and  an  uncertain  number  of  strikers  had  been 
killed ;  John  Dawson's  indignant  statement  that  the  depu- 
ties had  fired  first,  and  without  provocation,  was  smoth- 
ered in  the  body  of  the  story ;  while  the  front  page  head- 
ing quoted  Judge  Florence  to  the  effect  that  the  com- 


270  MOUNTAIN 

pany  saw  no  other  way  to  stop  bloodshed  than  by  imme- 
diate presence  of  the  soldiers.  A  hurried  meeting  of  the 
Commercial  Club  backed  up  this  demand. 

"They'll  try  to  wipe  the  boys  out,"  groaned  Pelham, 
bitterly.  "They  may  have  planted  this  fight,  for  an  ex- 
cuse. We  must  have  won  too  many  strike-breakers." 

An  inside  page  held  an  account  of  the  conviction  of 
Nils  Jensen,  Benjamin  Wilson,  Lafe  Puckett  and  a  negro 
named  Moses  Pike  for  attempting  to  dynamite  the  ramp 
opening. 

"They're  out  for  blood  now,"  Pelham  commented  som- 
berly, after  reading  the  brief  announcement. 

"They  won't  get  you  for  anything,  dear?"  she  queried 
quickly. 

"I  don't  believe  so.  ...  You  never  can  tell." 

On  their  arrival,  he  sent  Jane  home  by  taxi,  and  went 
at  once  to  strike  headquarters.  Two  men  lay  sleeping  on 
a  rug  thrown  into  the  corner,  their  faces  gray  and  ex- 
hausted. A  young  miner,  his  arm  bandaged,  sat  at  the 
table  with  Spence  and  several  others. 

"Hello,  Judson.  Just  in  time  for  the  big  round,"  the 
lawyer  greeted  grimly. 

They  walked  over  to  the  window.  "Two  companies 
arrive  to-night,"  Spence  continued.  "By  to-morrow 
they'll  proclaim  martial  law  for  the  entire  mountain  dis- 
trict. .  .  ."  His  tone  grew  shrilly  significant.  "That 
includes  the  place  where  the  boys  live  now." 

"What  can  we  answer?" 

The  lawyer  lifted  wearied  shoulders.  "Do  what  we 

can.  We  won't  quit,  but I  saw  what  they  did  in  '04, 

remember." 

"No  chance  for  justice  from  the  soldiers?  I  know 
some  of  the  boys  in  the  local  company " 

"My  dear  man,  the  company  gave  'em  new  brass  but- 


THE  CLASH  271 

tons,  new  rifles,  new  bullets !  Where  will  they  put  those 
bullets,  do  you  suppose  ?  It's  irony  for  you :  most  of  the 
soldiers  were  once  laborers ;  labor's  money  pays  for  their 
food  and  their  rifles;  and  labor  receives  their  fire.  Of 

course,  if  we  can  avoid  trouble It's  our  only  hope; 

we  can  win,  if  we  can  prevent  a  smash-up." 

"What  about  Jensen  ?" 

"I'm  appealing;  that'll  tie  it  up  for  a  year.  But  the 
cards  are  marked,  and  they  are  dealing." 

Pelham  escaped  from  the  headquarters  of  suffering  for 
a  hurried  trip  out  to  the  miners'  tent  settlement.  On  the 
way  back,  he  saw  in  the  state  road  ahead  a  familiar  boyish 
figure ;  as  he  reached  it,  fourteen-year-old  Ned  turned  and 
saw  him. 

"Hey,  give  us  a  lift,  Pell !"  The  brother  climbed  in  im- 
petuously. "Didn't  expect  to  see  me,  did  you  ?  Father's 
going  to  let  me  be  a  deputy,  next  year !  Does  the  com- 
pany let  you  use  these  roads  ?" 

"This  is  a  state  road,  Ned;  it's  as  much  mine  as  the 
company's." 

"Gee,  I  thought  they  all  belonged  to  the  company! 
What  do  you  know,  Pell — Sue's  getting  married  Fri- 
day!" 

"So  I  read,"  rather  crudely.    "Is  he  a  nice  chap  ?" 

"Fine  as  silk!  His  father's  in  the  insurance  business 
at  Hartford — he  has  two  yachts  and  an  aeroplane — I'm 
going  to  visit  them  next  summer " 

"You've  gotten  thick  already,  I  see.  I'm  glad  she's  get- 
ting married." 

"And  what  do  you  suppose !"  Ned's  eyes  grew  round 
and  mysterious.  "Tom  Cole's  really  dead  at  last!  He 
got  pneumonia,  and  died  in  three  days.  The  funeral  was 
in  Lilydale — Nell  'n'  me  went!" 

"Nell  and  I." 


272  MOUNTAIN 

"Anyhow,  mother  sent  the  most  wonderful  bunch  of 
white  roses  you  ever  saw — all  that  were  growing  on  the 
mountain.  I  helped  pick  'em.  And  we're  living  in  a  won- 
derful big  house  in  Glen  Kenmore!  Gee,  you  ought  to 
see  it!" 

"Old  Peter's  still  on  the  mountain  ?" 

"Yes,  an'  he's  going  to  teach  me  how  to  fiddle !  Father 
said  I  could  learn." 

"Here's  your  company  road,  now,"  as  they  reached  the 
Fortieth  Street  gap  road.  "Give  my  love  to  mother  and 
the  girls." 

Another  death  occurred,  announced  by  a  simple  wire 
to  Pelham  signed  "Grandma."  Thoughtfully  he  pulled 
out  of  a  desk  compartment  the  slim  file,  regretting  the 
unanswered  note  on  top.  He  studied  soberly  the  careful 
letters,  the  slight  tremble  in  the  curves  and  capitals.  To 
think  that  that  deep-channeled  hand  could  never  form  an- 
other line! 

The  Barbour  homestead  came  back  to  him,  a  richly 
scented  recollection.  His  little  room,  peach-petal  sprays 
rubbing  their  silken  invitation  on  the  rain-specked  panes 
.  .  .  the  teetering  climb  on  unsteady  branches,  to  the 
^ucculent  prize  just  within  fingers'  reach  .  .  .  the 
shaded  colonnade  of  the  oak  avenue  before  .  .  .  the 
smell  of  flowers:  pansies  and  roses,  begonias  and  the 
white  sweetness  of  magnolia  fuscata.  .  .  . 

His  nose  breathed  in  the  memory  of  the  fragrance ;  and 
of  the  indescribably  musty  odor  he  associated  with  old 
age,  a  compound  of  pungent  pennyroyal  pillows,  of  kero- 
sene, which  grandfather  always  rubbed  in  his  hands  to 
warn  off  the  mosquitoes,  of  lavender  and  rose  leaves  in 
sachet  pads  on  the  bureau.  ...  A  scent  unmistaka- 
ble, anciently  sweet.  All  day  his  office  was  full  of  it. 

He  took  the  telegram  home  to  Jane  at  supper.  They 
were  staying  at  the  Andersons',  until  their  own  home,  a 


THE  CLASH  273 

small  two-story  house  on  Haviland  Avenue,  was  ready 
to  accept  them. 

Jane  reread  the  brief  message.  "Of  course,  we'll  both 
go,  Pelham.  I'd  wanted  so  to  meet  your  grandfather !  He 
meant  so  much  to  you.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  we  could  go  this  spring  to  see  them.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  with  Jane  at  the  Jackson  Hotel,  over- 
shadowed now  by  the  new  Lomax  House ;  although  Uncle 
Derrell  had  long  ago  sold  his  interest,  to  move  out  on  the 
Greenville  Road.  Alf  Barbour,  who  had  been  elected  to 
the  legislature,  was  as  glad  to  see  him  as  his  uncle  and 
aunt ;  and  Lil,  who  had  been  married  two  years,  proudly 
displayed  her  fat  six -months-old  bundle  of  joy  for  Jane's 
appreciation.  These  were  all  Barbours,  Pelham  thought 
in  curious  detachment,  as  he  was ;  he  was  at  home  with 
them.  He  imagined  the  cold  formality  of  Pratt  Judson's 
big  house,  and  rejoiced  again  at  the  kinder  heritage  pre- 
dominant in  his  own  blood. 

Why,  the  grandparents  had  been  almost  a  second  father 
and  mother  to  him.  Undisturbed  he  went  through  the 
old  house  again — Paul  was  stopping  at  Pratt's — reliving 
the  old  days ;  grandmother's  dear  frail  hands  clutched 
tremulously  at  his  sleeve.  "You  were  always  such  a  com- 
fort to  him,  Pell.  .  .  ." 

She  fell  in  love  with  Jane,  too.  The  girl  set  herself  out 
to  be  sweet  and  considerate — to  say  nothing  that  might 
jar  or  ruffle  the  kindly  unprogressiveness  of  the  people. 

"You  have  a  lovely  wife,  Pell;  like  one  of  the  Bar- 
bours," grandmother  whispered  lovingly. 

When  he  repeated  this  to  Jane,  she  answered,  "And 
that  is  her  highest  praise.  ...  It  means  a  lot  to  me." 

At  the  graveyard,  his  mother's  black  figure  stumbled 
heavily  beside  her  husband's  stiff  preoccupation.  Son  and 
father  did  not  look  once  at  each  other;  there  was  no 
recognition.  But  Mary  came  over  beside  her  brother,  and 


274  MOUNTAIN 

his  quietly  sobbing  family,  and  held  Pelham  to  her  breast. 
'Mother's  own  big  boy.  .  .  .  He  was  always  so  fond  of 
you." 

Then  she  did  an  unexpected  thing.  With  a  quick  mo- 
tion she  turned  to  the  younger  woman  beside  him,  and 
kissed  her  cheek.  "I  pray  God  you  make  my  son  happy," 
she  whispered.  "May  he  never  be  unhappy.  .  .  ." 
She  cast  a  half-broken  look  back  to  where  she  had  been. 
Sobbing  heavily,  she  left  them. 

The  slow  echoes  of  "The  Sweet  By-and-By"  ceased ;  the 
simple  service  ended.  The  horses  stepped  down  the  dirt 
road  to  their  next  task.  Jane  packed  to  return  on  the 
morning  train. 

Pelham,  in  answer  to  Uncle  Jimmy  Barbour's  ques- 
tions, went  into  a  restrained  discussion  of  his  new  be- 
liefs. 

"I  don't  understand  all  about  socialism,"  the  uncle 
finally  decided,  "but  it  seems  to  be,  as  you  say,  for  the 
brotherhood  of  man.  And  surely  that  is  following  in  the 
Master's  footsteps." 

"And  I  know  Mary's  boy  wouldn't  do  anything  we 
could  be  ashamed  of,"  said  Aunt  Lotta,  in  soft  certainty. 

The  simple  trust  moved  him. 

As  he  was  leaving,  Pelham  took  his  aunt  aside.  "Don't 
let  grandmother  worry  too  much  over — it,"  he  said  softly. 
"It's  all  so  beautiful,  and  natural.  If  you  believe  in  a 
heaven,  you  know  he  is  happier  there  than  here.  Just  as 
flowers  blossom  and  die,  just  as  the  leaves  stretch  out  their 
green  leaves  and  then  grow  bare  under  winter  skies,  grow 
old,  and  die,  while  their  place  is  taken  by  the  younger 
saplings — it  is  all  natural,  and  beautiful.  We  wouldn't 
want  an  endless  day,  or  an  eternal  spring;  there  must 
come  night  and  winter,  that  the  new  blossoming  may  fol- 
low." 


THE  CLASH  275 

"It  is  a  lovely  idea,"  Aunt  Lotta  said  brokenly.  "It 
will  comfort  mother." 

Then  he  and  Jane  turned  north  again,  to  take  up  the 
unfinished  labors  at  Adamsville — the  hazard  of  losing  the 
strike,  and  the  delight  of  building  their  home  together. 


XXIII 

r  I  ^HE  iron  city  interrupted  its  bitter  struggle  for  an 
-*•  event  of  local  magnitude.  January  I7th,  1917 — 
Adams ville  celebrated  its  semi-centennial!  Fifty  years 
since  the  first  farm-shack  had  been  built  on  the  farm  be- 
side Ross's  Creek :  ten  years  of  sleepy  and  indeterminate 
farm  growth,  with  a  forty  year  waking  that  had  made  it 
the  third  largest  city  in  the  oldest  quarter  of  the  coun- 
try! Fifty  years  between  old  Thaddeus  Ross's  unhitch- 
ing his  single  horse  to  begin  plowing,  and  the  creation 
of  the  billion-dollar  Gulf  Iron  and  Steel  Corporation,  with 
his  great-grandson  Sam  Ross  as  president,  and  Judge 
Florence  and  Paul  Judson  on  the  board. 

A  ''White  Way"  had  been  opened  up  both  sides  of  the 
four  main  avenues,  with  five  great  white  globes  every 
thirty  feet.  Streamers  of  patriotic  tri-colored  lights  lined 
the  side  streets,  converging  to  a  tapering  pole  in  the  center 
of  Main  Park — a  vast  pyramid  of  glitter  and  sparkle. 
Two  new  bandstands  flashed  back  the  twinkle  from  their 
shining  woodwork;  an  ornate  speakers'  stand  lifted  above 
between  them.  Bunting  draped  the  thoroughfares,  the 
national  emblem  interwoven  with  the  flags  of  France, 
England,  Belgium,  Russia,  Japan,  thickest  over  the  court 
house  and  jail,  the  big  retail  houses,  the  offices  of  the 
mining  and  furnace  companies,  and  the  rambling  cotton 
mills.  Here  the  gay  cloth  framed  the  faces  of  women 
and  children,  busily  bending,  in  the  half  gloom,  above 
vast  black  machines — noisily  weaving,  in  the  human 
silence,  cloth  for  more  bunting. 

The  new  Commercial  Club  building,  a  transplanted 

276 


THE  CLASH  277 

Greek  temple,  marble  white,  was  to  be  dedicated,  as  part 
of  the  celebration.  The  gleaming  symbol  of  adamantine 
prosperity  was  christened  with  champagne;  the  punch 
bubbled  for  gay  members  and  wives,  who  applauded  the 
eloquence  of  Dudley  Randolph,  the  retiring  president,  as 
he  relinquished  the  gavel  to  Paul  Judson. 

"This  is  the  man  who  has  saved  Adamsville.  I  may  be 
giving  away  a  secret,  but — we  all  know  Paul  Judson' s 
backbone.  But  for  it,  we  might  have  union  miners  swag- 
gering down  our  avenues  and  boulevards.  Instead,  we 
have  the  militia,  our  sons  under  the  waving  banners  of  red 

and  white  and  blue "  Frantic  cheers  submerged  the 

rest  of  the  sentence.  "Mark  my  words :  the  time's  com- 
ing when  these  law-defying  strikers  will  feel  the  militia's 
iron  insistence  upon  the  majesty  of  the  law! 

"We  can  handle  Adamsville;  but  that  is  not  enough." 
His  pulsing  tones  shook  and  trembled  above  their  heads. 
"I  want  to  see  those  same  boys  marching  under  that  same 
flag,  side  by  side  with  the  tricolor  of  France  and  the 
Union  Jack,  against  another  autocracy  greater  than  the 
domestic  tyranny  of  the  labor  union  carpet-bagger  1"  The 
shouts  were  whole-hearted,  one  veteran  attempting  the 
yodelled  "Coo-ee"  of  the  rebel  yell. 

"Let  the  rest  of  the  South  hang  back,"  his  strident  tones 
shouted,  "because  of  the  loss  of  its  cotton  trade  with  Ger- 
many. We've  got  the  iron  and  steel  here  to  lay  the  rails 
straight  down  Unter  den  Linden,  to  forge  the  42-centi- 
meter guns  that  will  blast  the  hated  house  of  Hohenzol- 
lern  into  its  home,  the  reddest  sub-cellar  of  Hell !  We  de- 
mand that  our  country  avenge  the  Lusitania — avenge  the 
rape  of  Belgium — avenge  the  foul  assault  on  the  soul  of 
civilization.  And  when  her  citizens  speak,  Columbia  will 
not  lag  behind !" 

There  was  a  riot  of  joy  as  Paul  Judson  echoed  the 
vigor  of  the  old  iron-master.  "We  have  strangled  the  foe 


278  MOUNTAIN 

within,"  his  clearly  enunciated  syllables  stretched  forth. 
"This  undemocratic,  anti-American  principle  of  union- 
labor  slavery,  of  a  socialism  sired  by  Prussian  autocracy, 
and  damned  by  all  the  forces  of  law  and  order  through- 
out the  world "  The  reporters  could  not  catch  his 

next  words. 

"It  is  a  time  of  prosperity  for  Adamsville.  From  the 
marble  palaces  of  East  Highlands  to  the  poorest  hovel  in 
Scrubtown  or  Jones'  Hill,  we  find  a  united  citizenry 
stepping  forth,  'Boost  Adamsville'  the  motto  shown  on 
the  button  on  every  coat.  Let  us  be  united,  to  lead  into 
the  time  when  democracy  has  established  its  universal 
sway,  under  the  flag  that  shines  with  the  very  stars  of 
Heaven.  .  .  ." 

"The  old-time  eloquence  of  the  South,"  observed  the 
editor  of  the  Times-Dispatch  approvingly,  "has  not  left  its 
gifted  sons  of  to-day." 

In  the  packed  stuffiness  of  Arlington  Hall,  the  miners' 
union  held  its  meeting  the  same  night,  to  hear  the  report 
from  the  strike  committee  and  act  on  it.  One  matter 
came  up  first — the  motion  for  the  expulsion  of  Ed  Cole 
from  the  union.  It  was  John  McGue's  quick  mind  that 
had  suspected  the  negro's  treachery,  it  was  he  who  had 
seen  the  actual  transfer  of  the  roll  of  bills  from  the 
covetous  hands  of  Jim  Hewin  to  the  greedy  negro's.  Ed 
Cole,  feeling  behind  him  the  hidden  support  of  Jack 
Bowden  and  the  old  union  crowd,  defended  himself  with 
schooled  dignity.  But  he  could  not  explain  away  the 
money,  and  McGue's  word  was  not  doubted  by  the  mem- 
bers. John  Dawson,  more  age-scarred  and  mountain- 
like  than  ever,  led  the  weary  fight  to  purge  the  move- 
ment. The  balloting  was  four  to  one  for  expulsion. 

One  ugly  side-glance  of  hatred  shot  out  of  the  negro's 
face  as  he  left  the  hall,  a  look  directed  toward  the  corner 


THE  CLASH  279 

where  the  radical  unionists  bunched.  Then  he  disap- 
peared. 

And  now,  the  real  fight.  The  committee's  report  was 
short  and  definite.  The  company  had  refused  to  accede 
to  the  demands  for  unionization,  even  with  a  waiver  of 
all  other  claims.  The  committee  recommended  that  the 
strike  be  abandoned  as  lost,  or  fought  out  on  the  same 
plan,  with  the  additional  difficulty  caused  by  the  presence 
of  the  soldiers. 

Bowden  was  on  his  feet,  a  vindictive  snarl  in  his  whole 
bearing.  His  eyes  swept  the  crammed  benches  confi- 
dently. He  was  sure  of  this  crowd. 

"I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  against  John  Dawson,  and  his 
runnin'  of  this  strike.  But  it's  failed.  Even  a  blind  man 
can  see  that.  I  been  in  conference — Bob  Bivens,  John 
Pooley  an'  me — with  Mr.  Kane,  the  company's  adjust- 
ment man.  He  has  given  me  this  offer  direct  from  head- 
quarters." His  look  drove  this  remark  straight  at  Daw- 
son.  "The  company  is  willing  to  settle  the  matter" — 
every  attention  was  frozen  to  the  twisted  frown  of  the 
weak  figure  erect  in  the  center  of  the  room — "take  the 
men  back,  on  the  same  terms  as  before,  with  the  promise 
of  a  raise  if  there  is  any  profit  to  make  it  from,  laying 
aside  the  question  of  recognition  for  the  future.  And  I 
move  that  resolution,  and  that  the  strike  committee  be 
discharged — instead  of  that  bull  the  committee  handed 
us." 

"Second  the  motion!"  Pooley's  voice  blended  with  a 
dozen  others. 

The  floor  swirled  with  demands  for  recognition.  The 
chairman  picked  out  the  brawny  bulk  of  Dawson,  impera- 
tively calling  for  the  chance  to  reply.  He  understood 
the  crisis,  and  strove  to  meet  it. 

''I've  been  a  union  man  twenty-three  years,  and  I  never 
laid  down  on  a  fight  yet !" 


28o  MOUNTAIN 

There  was  tumultuous  applause  from  the  Socialists  and 
the  more  aggressive  of  the  miners;  but  it  came  from  a 
bare  half  of  the  hall. 

"I'd  lie  down  and  die  before  I'd  give  up  to  a  gang  like 
that !  Accept  this  dirty  proposition  which  Jack  Bowden 
brings  to  you — he  offered  the  same  thing  six  months  ago, 
and  you  wouldn't  listen  to  him — and  you  set  back  the 
union  movement  in  Adamsville  ten  years.  You'll  admit 
you  are  licked  off  the  map.  I  don't  care  whether  you  call 
the  strike  ended,  and  get  into  other  work  here  or  else- 
where, or  keep  on  fighting — I'll  stay  here  as  long  as 
there's  any  hope,  I'll  make  the  national  keep  me  here.  .  .  . 

"But  don't  lie  down!  They're  licked  now,  and  they 
know  it,  if  you  sit  steady  and  don't  let  them  provoke  you 
to  violence.  You've  won,  unless 

"You  know,"  he  thundered  suddenly,  his  hairy  arm  out- 
stretched toward  the  shrinking  form  of  the  local  agent, 
"all  of  you  know,  that  the  curse  of  the  American  labor 
movement  is  the  white-livered  skunk  that  sells  it  out !" 

There  was  wild  applause  at  this,  even  from  the  other 
side  of  the  house. 

"I  ain't  namin'  no  names,  but  I  say  that  self-appointed 
committee  that's  always  runnin'  in  with  offers  from  the 
company  is  treadin'  slippery  ground  .  .  .  just  like 
that  nigger  we  fired  out  of  here  for  takin'  money  from 
company  men.  It  looks  rotten — and,  by  God,  no  man  can 
say  that  anything  I  ever  did  looks  rotten !  I  call  on  you 
men  to  show  'em  that  Adamsville  miners  haven't  a  drop 
of  quitters'  blood  in  their  veins !" 

Ben  Spence  was  on  his  feet,  tightening  his  lips  nerv- 
ously. To  keep  in  the  good  graces  of  the  Socialists  and 
radicals,  and  at  the  same  time  continue  to  represent  the 
union  in  its  legal  affairs,  required  all  of  the  tact  that  he 
possessed. 

"Here,  brothers,  there  ain't  no  use  in  calling  names  or 


THE  CLASH  281 

showing  hard  feelings.  All  of  us  know  what  John  Daw- 
son's  done  for  us — all  of  us  know  that  Jack  Bowden's 
been  a  faithful  union  man  for  more  years  than  a  horse 
has  teeth." 

There  was  a  grin  at  this,  and  a  weak  rattle  of  ap- 
plause, which  encouraged  him. 

"If  we  can  win  by  agreement,  there's  no  use  turning 
anything  down  cold.  This  offer  from  Mr.  Kane  may  be 
just  a  feeler;  maybe  the  company's  ready  now  to  do  more. 
Why  not  instruct  the  strike  committee,  working  with 
brothers  Bivens,  Pooley,  and  Bowden,  to  get  in  touch  with 
the  office  again,  and  see  if  we  can't  get  more  out  of  them? 
I  believe  in  using  sense  at  all  times.  I  move  that." 

There  was  a  scowl  on  the  faces  of  the  Voice  of  Labor 
crowd  as  the  motion  was  put,  but,  after  all,  Bowden  re- 
flected, it  was  at  least  a  half  victory.  The  motion  was 
carried  overwhelmingly,  and  the  committee  was  in- 
structed to  act  at  once. 

When  he  got  to  his  room  at  the  Mecca  Hotel,  tired  and 
down-hearted,  John  Dawson  stretched  at  once  on  the  bed. 
The  phone  rang  abruptly. 

"It's  for  you,  Mac,"  he  called  to  McGue,  who  sat 
scratching  his  head  over  a  game  of  solitaire  on  the  greasy 
wash-stand  top. 

The  shorter  man  hung  up  the  receiver,  puzzled.  "It's 
from  Mr.  Brant,  of  the  Register,  he  says — and  he  wants 
me  to  go  over  to  Mr.  Judson's  office  right  away  to  see  him 
on  something  important." 

"Fm  goin'  to  bed.  See  you  when  you  come  back."  He 
skidded  the  huge  shoes  toward  the  side  of  the  cheap  oak 
bureau. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  a  scant  six  minutes 
later.  John  Dawson,  brain  half  asleep,  his  head  screwed 
into  the  pillow,  grumbled  a  "Come  in !"  and  turned  over 
slowly. 


282  MOUNTAIN 

He  sat  up  quickly,  flinging  his  feet  over  the  edge  of 
the  bed  to  the  floor,  as  Ed  Cole's  ingratiating  face  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  door. 

"Well  ?"  He  sat  up  tensely.  He  wondered  whether  to 
reach  for  the  pistol  under  his  pillow,  cursing  the  fact  that 
McGue  had  gone.  Then  he  reflected  that  this  negro 
would  never  have  courage  enough  to  plan  any  harm. 

"What  do  you  want,  Cole?" 

"You  ain'  treat  me  right,  Mr.  Dawson,"  said  the  negro, 
who  kept  his  hands  in  a  shabby  overcoat  reaching  to  the 
ground.  "Ah  ain'  took  no  money  f'um  dat  Jim  Hewin." 

"Come  around  and  see  me  to-morrow  at  headquarters. 
I'm  in  bed  now."  He  pretended  a  yawn,  still  keenly  alert. 

"You  done  me  dirt,  Mr.  Dawson.  Ah  ain'  stan'  fer  dat 
f'um  no  man,  white  or  black." 

Dawson  rose  to  his  feet,  and  swayed  menacingly  on  his 
bare  toes.  "I  don't  let  nobody  disturb  me  after  I've  gone 
to  bed,  Cole.  Git  out  of  here."  His  hand  started  work- 
ing its  way  back  along  the  sheeting. 

The  negro's  startled  eyes  saw  the  slow  motion;  Daw- 
son  heard  the  chatter  of  his  teeth. 

"Ah'm — Ah'm  gon'ter  fix  you,  Mr.  Dawson" — he 
raised  the  right  hand,  weighted  with  an  ugly  forty-five. 

Dawson  acted  with  all  his  speed.  He  threw  himself 
toward  the  floor  sideways,  grasping  his  pistol  as  he  fell. 
The  gun  in  the  hands  of  the  negro  roared,  flamed;  the 
smoke  blinded  Dawson's  eyes,  stung  his  nostrils.  He 
fumbled  with  the  trigger  of  his  pistol. 

Cole's  foot  shot  out ;  the  chair  between  them  bounded 
grotesquely  at  him,  crashing  into  his  arm,  spoiling  his 
aim.  He  heard  the  pistol  click  again.  He  rose,  aiming. 

As  he  saw  the  direct  flare  of  the  hot  breath  toward  him, 
his  own  pistol  clicked  impotently.  At  dizzy  spec'!  his 
mind  traveled — should  he  try  again,  or  swing  the  cylinder 
to  the  next  shell? 


THE  CLASH  283 

How  had  the  negro  missed  him  at  that  distance  ? 

Then  came  the  sense  of  the  terrific  blow  caving  in  his 
ribs,  gutting  its  way  throughout  his  inside.  His  huge 
face,  which  seemed  to  the  negro  to  reach  almost  to  the 
ceiling,  gasped  into  a  wrenched  grimace  of  pain ;  the  eyes 
closed,  the  mouth  popped  oddly  open,  like  a  frog's.  An 
explosive  intake  of  breath  shivered  horribly. 

Ed  Cole  retreated  in  terror,  aiming  the  pistol  again,  his 
eyes  fascinated  by  the  dark  dampness  spilling  over  the 
crumpled  white  nightgown.  Then  his  eyes  came  back  to 
the  face. 

Steadied  against  the  wall,  the  wounded  mountain  that 
had  been  a  man  fumbled  at  the  weapon.  His  fingers 
edged  open  spasmodically.  The  pistol  clattered  against 
the  fallen  chair. 

The  great  paws  reached  out  toward  the  negro's  face ; 
Cole  could  imagine  their  wide  clutch  rounding  his  neck. 
Then  they  doubled  up  abruptly,  the  big  form  swayed,  the 
knees  collapsed,  the  body  crumpled  upon  the  stained 
floor. 

Throwing  his  pistol  out  of  the  window,  Ed  Cole  ran 
for  the  stairs.  Halfway  down  he  stumbled,  crashing 
noisily  into  the  wooden  railing.  The  clerk  dozed,  half- 
awake,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  the  noise  he 
had  heard  above  called  for  an  investigation  or  not.  He 
jerked  to  his  feet,  his  hand  aimed  for  the  drawer  where 
his  automatic  was  kept.  Before  he  had  reached  it,  the 
negro  was  in  the  street. 

The  clerk  ran  to  the  doorway,  shouting  unintelligibly. 

Half  a  block  away,  two  policemen  lounging  before  the 
station  had  straightened  at  the  first  shot.  They  saw  the 
running  form  almost  as  soon  as  they  started  for  the  hotel. 
A  negro !  "Hai !  Stop  there,  you  damn'  nigger,  or  we'll 
shoot  you " 

Ed  halted,  hands  in  the  air.    "Ah  ain't  done  nothin'." 


284  MOUNTAIN 

The  second  officer  searched  him,  while  the  other  kept 
the  big  automatic  rubbed  against  his  stomach.  "Nothin' 
doin',  Jim." 

"What  was  that  shot  back  there  ?" 

Ed  Cole's  wits  came  back  to  him.  "A  white  gen'lman, 
suh,  he  shot  me,  an'  Ah  shot  back  at  him." 

"I've  a  mind  to  kill  you  now.  Let's  give  him  twenty 
feet,  Jim,  then  let  him  have  it !" 

Cole's  arteries  seemed  frozen.  "It  was — it  was  dat 
union  feller,  suh — Mr.  Dawson.  He  drawed  a  gun  on 
me  fu'st." 

A  peculiar  look  passed  from  one  policeman  to  another, 
an  expression  significant  with  doubt.  There  was  more  in 
this  than  mere  murder.  "Come  with  us,  nigger.  If  you 
try  any  tricks "  The  pistol  bored  into  his  back. 

"Lawd  knows,  boss,"  the  whites  of  his  eyes  tumbled  in 
desperation,  "Ah  ain'  gwinter  do  no  tricks." 

The  policemen,  with  two  others  who  had  come  up,  ex- 
amined the  room  carefully.  One  phoned  for  the  wagon, 
another  located  the  pistol  thrown  into  the  littered  lot  be- 
side. 

"Ah  was  so  scared,"  Cole  admitted,  his  shifty  eyes  re- 
assured by  the  attitude  of  the  police,  "Ah  jus'  th'owed  dat 
gun  anywhar." 

The  first  officer  picked  up  the  weapon  beside  the  chair, 
sprung  the  cylinder,  and  revealed  the  dented  shell.  He 
threw  out  the  charge ;  each  shell  had  been  emptied. 

"You  say  he  shot  at  you  first  ?   Don't  lie  to  me,  nigger." 

"Dat's  de  Lawd's  trufe,  sir.  Ah  ain'  lie  to  no  police- 
man." 

Ed  Cole  was  hurried  off  to  the  city  lock-up,  to  await 
removal  to  the  county  jail,  charged  with  murder  in  the 
first  degree. 


XXIV 

PELHAM  and  Jane  came  back  from  their  trip  to  Jack- 
son in  a  gentle  mood.  Death  quiets  the  footfall  and 
lowers  the  voice  instinctively;  their  joy  in  the  final  prepa- 
ration of  the  house  on  Haviland  Avenue  was  unconscious- 
ly hushed. 

He  had  his  word  about  the  various  purchases ;  but  his 
haphazard  taste  began  to  defer  regularly  to  her  sense  of 
artistic  home-making.  The  little  clashes  that  came 
smoothed  themselves  away. 

While  she  was  superintending  the  unpacking  of  a  treas- 
ured dinner  set,  her  aunt's  contribution,  Pelham  volun- 
teered to  hang  the  pictures  on  the  living-room  and  study 
walls.  She  edged  out  to  watch  him,  and  interrupted  at 
once,  ''Oh,  never,  never,  Pelham!  Pictures  must  be 
hung  at  eye-level." 

Perturbed  eyes  met  hers.  "Ours  hang  near  the  ceil- 
ing, at  home." 

"They  were  probably  larger.  Mrs.  Anderson  taught 
me  that.  There.  .  .  .  And  don't  you  agree  now  that 
my  taste  in  wall  paper  is  excellent?  This  gray  oatmeal, 
as  a  background " 

"It  is  cool  and  lovely.  I've  grown  up  among  flowers 
and  curlicues." 

They  did  not  buy  many  things,  Pelham's  uncertain  in- 
come being  a  chief  cause.  While  with  the  company,  he 
had  lived  up  to  his  salary;  from  the  few  pay  checks  as 
state  inspector  he  had  not  been  able  to  lay  aside  a  great 
sum.  This,  with  a  legacy  kept  untouched  from  college 
days,  and  an  income  that  Jane  had  from  her  father's 

285 


286  MOUNTAIN 

estate,  put  them  beyond  immediate  worry ;  but  there  was 
no  idle  surplus  for  expensive  furnishings.  The  election, 
as  well  as  the  wedding  trip,  had  cut  into  his  savings ;  and 
his  present  potboiling  work — statistical  researches  for  the 
United  Charities  reports — did  not  go  very  far,  nor 
promise  a  future. 

Remembering  these  facts,  Jane's  natural  economy 
sought  the  less  pretentious  stores.  The  dining-room  set 
and  the  bedroom  furniture  were  substantial,  but  inexpen- 
sive for  the  taste  they  showed ;  the  piano  and  book-cases 
were  paid  for  on  what  Lily,  the  cook  and  maid-of-all- 
tasks,  called  "de  extortion  plan." 

As  she  approved  of  the  final  placing  of  the  pictures, 
Jane  reflected  with  satisfaction  on  the  fine  showing  their 
funds  had  made;  and  Pelham,  his  mind  rather  on  the 
total  shown  by  the  bank's  balance  slip  the  first  of  the 
month,  was  glad  that  the  bulk  of  the  buying  was  ended. 

Thoughtfully  she  studied  the  room.  "That  couch  could 
stand  two  or  three  pillows.  ...  I  saw  some  ruby 
cretonne  that  would  go  wonderfully  with  that  cover." 

When  she  had  purchased  it  and  made  it  up,  he  had 
to  admit  that  it  was  the  most  colorful  spot  in  the  house. 

And  what  a  colorful  time  those  first  days  were !  Many 
of  the  ordinary  achievements  toward  the  joint  home 
brought  positive  ecstasy. 

The  puffed  pride  of  those  ruby  cushions  marked  the 
end  of  the  metamorphosis  of  the  house  into  a  home.  "It's 
really  presentable,  now,"  she  sighed  contentedly,  as  she 
sat  in  their  own  chair,  on  their  own  porch  of  their  own 
dwelling. 

Pelham  lounged  back  against  her  knee,  studying  the 
dark  countenance  of  the  mountain ;  somehow  its  spell  had 
drawn  toward  it  the  face  of  the  house,  and  the  unlidded 
gaze  of  its  blind-less  front  eyes.  There  was  a  pleasant 


THE  CLASH  287 

rustle  in  his  ears,  as  his  wife  bent  over  her  sewing ;  Jane 
could  not  resist  an  occasional  tingle  of  embarrassment  at 
this  preoccupation,  in  his  presence,  with  the  intimate 
mends  in  her  garments.  Would  she  ever  dare  mend  his ! 
What  shameless  and  delightful  publicity  marriage  en- 
tailed ! 

Abstractedly  he  thought  over  the  outstanding  raptures 
of  these  days.  What  simple  stuff  made  the  enduring 
pleasures !  There  was  the  thrill,  for  instance,  when  he 
had,  with  studied  casualness,  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  the 
signed  lease,  for  her  inspection.  What  an  unimportant 
thing,  yet  wearing  somehow  the  grace  of  man's  protect- 
ing, shelter-building  role !  Then  the  zest  of  standing  be- 
side her  while  they  chose  furniture  .  .  .  rugs,  table,  bed- 
room furniture.  .  .  .  The  emotional  exaltation  had  been 
immense.  And  the  first  meal  they  had  had  in  the 
dining-room,  with  matter-of-fact  Lily  in  and  out  in  mat- 
ter-of-fact fashion,  and  Jane  across  the  white  and  silver 
expanse,  her  face  softened  by  the  soft  lighting — these 
moments  might  become  habitual,  but  the  ecstasy  of  their 
first  tasting  had  welded  a  permanent  bond  connecting  the 
two.  Added  to  this  delight  in  things  was  the  growing  joy 
in  each  other — the  day's  cordial  comradeships,  the  splen- 
dor of  cool  nights  sacred  to  love,  and  reverent  gray 
dawns  in  which  he  woke  to  watch  the  loveliness  of  her 
calm  face  asleep  on  the  pillow's  rumpled  primness — 
these  shook  him  with  their  intimate  beauty. 

"Tired,  dear?"    He  put  up  his  hands  and  caught  hers. 

"Not  a  bit.  I  sighed  through  sheer  animal  comfort,  I 
think." 

"You've  earned  a  holiday — busy  since  morning  with  the 
house.  Get  your  wraps ;  you  don't  choose  the  club — let's 
go  up  to  the  crest,  and  watch  for  Canopus.  ...  If  we're 
in  luck,  he'll  be  visible  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 


288  MOUNTAIN 

They  reached  the  vantage  place;  despite  the  fitful 
waverings  of  the  horizon  air,  they  saw  the  star's  golden 
torch  drag  fierily  over  the  tree-fretted  heights  of  Shadow 
Mountain.  There  was  a  sullen  reddish  smolder  over  the 
face  of  this  alien  sun ;  but  the  brief  glimpse  of  the  burn- 
ing visitant  from  southern  skies  was  an  unforgettable  ex- 
perience. 

"If  we  could  only  watch  it  from  the  old  top  of  the 
mountain." 

"The  old  top,  Pelham?" 

He  traced  Nathaniel  Guild's  idea  of  the  mighty  sky- 
piercing  ridge  that  had  once  united  the  iron  strata  of  this 
crest  and  the  West  Adamsville  one,  with  an  overlap  of 
sandstone  whose  grayed  relics  still  crumbled  in  the  small 
hills  flanking  the  two  iron  ranges. 

"It  shrivels  our  puny  importance,  doesn't  it,  dear,  to 
think  of  the  former  majesty  of  these  hills!" 

"We're  as  important  to  ourselves,  Pelham." 

Together  in  spirit  they  climbed  the  airy  darkness  that 
had  been  the  old  mountain ;  their  fancies  winged  back  to 
the  shaken  ages  before  man's  weak  restlessness  hid  in 
trees  and  caves,  and  came  out  into  the  open,  to  clear  away 
and  shape  the  forests,  and  split  apart  the  everlasting  hills 
for  the  malleable  wealth  hid  within  them. 

But  the  ecstatic  moods  could  not  last  forever.  The 
graying  embers  of  the  strike  re-won  their  efforts ;  the  in- 
evitable selfishnesses  and  littlenesses  of  life  came  in, 
to  break  the  filmy  web  of  romance  and  delight.  Man  can 
stay  on  the  high  peaks,  whether  of  spirituality  or  intellect, 
of  surging  emotion  or  unstrung  sentiment,  but  a  little 
while;  their  rarefied  atmosphere,  the  height  of  man's  up- 
ward groping,  will  not  sustain  vigorous  animal  life. 
When  such  moments  come,  if  we  are  in  tune  we  pass  into 
their  magnetic  sway  whole-heartedly;  let  the  little  daily 


THE  CLASH  289 

frets,  the  appetites  and  prejudices,  be  in  control,  and 
the  height  is  unclimbed,  the  high  emotion  lifting  another 
passes  unnoticed  over  our  stooping  backs. 

The  two  differing  personalities  found  life  together  a 
perpetual  welter  of  adjustment.  Insofar  as  they  were 
adaptable,  these  adjustments  were  easy;  but  neither  his 
training,  as  a  favored  first  son,  nor  her  self-sure  nature, 
helped  cushion  the  continual  shocks.  Neither  had  reached 
the  opinionated  thirties,  when  inconsiderate  habits  have 
rutted  too  deeply  to  permit  habitual  considerateness ;  but 
the  two  determined  wills  had  no  easy  task  to  come  to 
agreement  upon  even  small  details  of  the  home  life. 

Pelham's  "picturesque"  pipes,  as  he  reminded  her  the 
unmarried  Jane  had  always  described  them,  showed  a  de- 
praved tendency  to  roost  wherever  their  master  finished 
with  them. 

"But,  darling,  you  must  remember,"  she  insisted,  in 
affectionate  exasperation.  "Lily  found  one  on  the  piano 
this  morning;  I  barely  moved  the  sugar  bowl,  and  look  at 
this  table  cloth !  Your  old  ashes  have  made  it  simply 
filthy.  The  hall  table's  marked ;  your  bureau " 

"I  always  mean  to  put  'em  on  the  rack,"  he  urged  in 
contrition. 

She  sniffed  distastefully,  holding  out  the  offender  at  the 
end  of  dainty  fingers.  "Here  it  is." 

Again,  he  would  become  unreasonably  exasperated 
when  she  insisted  upon  asking  what  meat  he  would  pre- 
fer for  dinner,  when  she  had  him  to  shop  with  her. 
"Mm-hmm,  it's  a  lovely  steak,"  he  would  agree  abstract- 
edly. "Yes,  I  like  ham,  too.  ...  Or  a  roast.  Dar- 
ling, I  don't  care.  Get  anything." 

She  felt  aggrieved  at  his  callousness  upon  the  momen- 
tous topic. 

Upon  other  matters  connected  with  eating  he  was  not 


290  MOUNTAIN 

so  unopinionated.  "Just  look  here,  Jane!  Lily's  douched 
the  potatoes  in  fat  again.  You  know  that  fried 
starch " 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  ...  by  now.  You  needn't  eat 
any ;  she'll  bring  some  mashed  ones  for  you." 

He  grinned  surlily.  "I'll  try  a  few,  Jane ;  I  like  them, 
though  they're  not  good  for  me.  .  .  .  Another  spoon- 
ful, please." 

The  country  club  was  another  viand  of  contention.  Jane 
had  never  enjoyed  the  inconsequential  chatter  and  watery 
flirtations  that  were  its  chief  offer ;  Pelham  found  in  them 
a  forget  fulness  from  strike  worries  and  the  increasing 
financial  problem. 

The  week  after  their  sight  of  Canopus,  he  announced 
a  determination  to  drop  by  for  tennis  with  Lane  Cullom, 
and  the  dinner  afterwards. 

"You  may  see  Hollis ;  it's  his  spring  holiday,"  his  wife 
observed  without  inflection. 

"I  saw  he  was  back.  I  don't  mind,  if  he  doesn't. 
.  .  .  Sure  you  don't  want  to  come?  For  dinner,  or 
afterwards  for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"Dances  are  so  boring,  Pell." 

"Once  in  a  while  I  like  'em." 

"I'll  go  next  week,  if  you  go  then.  .  .  .  Don't  make 
a  scene  with  Hollis." 

He  jerked  with  needless  viciousness  at  his  belt.  "Why 
make  such  an  assumption?  I'm  not  going  to  make  a 
scene." 

Her  pen  scratched  raspingly  over  the  businesslike  let- 
ter-heads of  the  State  Suffrage  Association.  "You  almost 
had  a  fight  with  John  Birrell,  at  the  bowling  tourna- 
ment." 

"You  exaggerate  everything,  Jane.  There  was  noth- 
ing like  it " 

"You  told  me " 


THE  CLASH  291 

"I  told  you,  very  plainly,  that  there  would  have  been 
a  fight,  if  we  hadn't  held  in  our  tempers.  He's  a  decent 
fellow;  he's  still  sore  about  my  mining  report.  The 
State  is  again  investigating  them." 

She  did  not  look  up. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  planting  an  indecisive  kiss  on  her 
hair. 

"Good-night." 

Probably  Hollis  would  be  in  uniform,  he  reflected.  The 
boy  hadn't  lost  any  time  in  joining  the  Yale  Battery,  when 
the  President's  initial  break  with  Germany  foreshadowed 
war. 

Just  after  dinner,  his  brother  Ned  charged  up.  "Hell-o, 
Pell !  Didn't  expect  to  see  me,  did  you  ?  Father  let  me 
come,  because  Hollis  was  here." 

"Aren't  we  the  young  sport !" 

"There  he  is— Hey,  Hollis!    Here's  Pell!" 

The  brother,  fine-looking  in  his  well-pressed  khaki, 
came  over  unhurriedly.  "Hello,  Pelham.  How  you 
making  out?" 

"Oh,  all  right.  I'm  working  for  the  United  Charities, 
you  know — Labor  Legislation  Committee." 

"Still  fooling  with  that  socialist  crew  ?" 

"I'm  still  a  member  of  the  party,  Hollis." 

"You  aren't  a  foreigner ;  why  don't  you  get  out  ?" 

Pelham's  eyes  snapped.  "Why  not  learn  something 
about  the  movement,  before  you  pass  judgment  on  it?" 

"You'll  wake  up  soon.  The  heads  of  the  movement  are 
all  pro-German;  everybody  says  so.  The  government's 
liable  to  arrest  'em  any  minute." 

The  older  brother  grinned.  "We  won't  quarrel  about 
it." 

''I  don't  care.  I  think  it's  outrageous,  agitating  against 
the  government,  when  we  may  have  war " 

Ned's  bright  eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other.    "Pell's 


292  MOUNTAIN 

right,  you  don't  know  much  about  socialism,  Hollis.  I've 
been  reading  books  at  the  library — it's  great  stuff !" 

"Let  father  catch  you !" 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  anyhow,"  Pelham  smiled. 
"Drop  by  the  Charities  building  some  morning  and  we'll 
talk  over  Sheff." 

Hollis  called,  and  the  brothers  had  lunch  together.  Al- 
though the  younger  said  nothing  of  it,  Pelham  could  not 
help  feeling  the  other's  distaste  at  the  dingy  side-office  in 
the  Charities  building  where  the  older  did  his  work  now. 
And  Pelham  observed  with  a  twinge  of  envy  his  brother's 
lavish  order  for  the  meal,  his  excessive  tipping.  Hollis 
planned  nothing  for  the  good  of  the  world ;  money  was 
his  without  asking ;  while  in  his  own  case.  .  .  . 

Well,  he  did  not  need  to  worry  yet.  He  was  not 
making  enough  to  support  himself  and  Jane;  but  their 
fund  was  still  sizable;  and  as  soon  as  the  strike  uncer- 
tainty was  over,  he  could  get  into  something  permanent. 
There  was  more  cause  for  worry  in  the  stagnation  of  the 
mine  struggle.  Thanks  to  the  men's  dogged  persistence, 
production  on  the  mountain  was  less  than  half  normal. 
The  companies  could  not  hold  out  forever.  Still,  the  in- 
action was  wearing;  he  felt  a  restlessness  against  the 
whole  fettering  situation  .  .  .  including  the  pester- 
ing details  of  the  house  on  Haviland  Avenue. 

Other  causes,  unknown  to  him,  egged  on  this  unrest. 
The  years  of  affection  absorbed  in  his  mother  had  so  ac- 
customed him  to  her  that  in  his  later  loves  he  constantly 
looked  for  her  characteristics,  her  most  trifling  traits. 
Jane  was  like  her,  in  many  ways ;  but  he  was  discovering 
more  ways  in  which  she  was  dissimilar.  Her  directness, 
for  one  thing,  was  not  the  Barbour  sweetness.  And  since 
she  was  not  a  reincarnation  of  Mary,  and  the  door  to  the 
mountain  was  shut,  not  only  by  the  present  situation  but 
by  the  rooted  inhibition  which  forever  banned  his  mother 


THE  CLASH  293 

as  the  object  of  his  man's  affections,  the  deep  imperative 
urged  him  forth  again.  He  would  be  finally  content,  al- 
though he  did  not  phrase  it  this  clearly,  with  no  less  than 
perfection  in  woman — perfection  to  him  meaning  Mary; 
which  is  another  way  of  saying  that  he  could  not  be  con- 
tent. Thus  he  must  still  seek.  The  headstrong  wildness 
of  the  mountain  intensified  the  gipsying  urge.  Sooner  or 
later,  he  felt  vaguely,  these  forces  would  push  him  to  some 
definite  move.  The  uncertainty  lay  as  to  when,  and  in 
what  direction,  the  outbreak  would  occur. 

Opportunity  never  delays,  when  the  strong  heart  de- 
mands it.  A  note  from  Louise  told  of  her  arrival  in  the 
city,  and  gave  her  phone  number.  First  impulse  was  to 
ring  her  up  at  once;  he  had  not  realized  how  much  he 
wanted  to  see  her.  He  thought  over  the  matter;  there 
was  no  harm  in  one  last  ride. 

He  called  up  both  women,  alleging  a  visit  to  strike 
headquarters  to  one,  and  preempting  the  other  for  the 
afternoon.  Just  before  three  he  claimed  the  New  Or- 
leans girl. 

"Come  on,"  he  told  her  delightedly,  holding  her  cool 
hands  hidden  in  his.  "It's  too  fine  an  afternoon  to  rust 
indoors." 

A  short  while  later  he  experimented  diffidently.  "You 
know,  I'm  married." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lover ;  I  suppose  I  saw  the  lady  in  my  city." 

"Well?" 

She  mimicked  his  uncertainty.    "Well?" 

After  all,  what  was  the  harm?  Louise  set  certain 
strings  in  his  nature  ringing  in  response  to  her  obvious 
lure,  strings  that  Jane's  finer  person  did  not  touch.  Why 
should  he  cripple  himself  by  denying  a  rounded  develop- 
ment, a  full  self-expression  to  his  nature? 

The  fresh  majesty  of  these  thoughts  quite  persuaded 
him ;  how  could  they  have  escaped  mankind  so  long  ?  He 


294  MOUNTAIN 

had  never  been  taught  that  desire  is  the  parthenogenetic 
parent  of  logic,  the  shaper  of  all  intellectual  decisions. 

They  swung  aimlessly  into  the  country  club  grounds, 
almost  deserted  this  early  in  the  afternoon.  Up  to  the  big 
billiard  garret,  the  rough  beams  above,  the  window-seats 
in  the  gables,  he  took  her. 

"With  a  few  more  cushions " 

He  lugged  over  an  armful,  and  bent  to  nest  them 
around  her.  The  intangible  sheath  of  the  lilas  surround- 
ing her  enwrapped  him,  mingled  with  the  delicately  acrid 
breath  of  her  body,  that  unmistakable  exhalation  of  fem- 
inine pores  which  summons  the  man  as  the  drowsy  odor 
of  sweet  clover  draws  the  boisterous  flight  of  the  bee. 

His  throat  choked,  a  tingling  warmness  washed 
throughout  him. 

"Don't  .  .  .  you're "  Provocative  fingers 

pushed  him  back. 

The  conventional  protest  died  away.  He  kissed  her 
fiercely,  with  a  passionate  brutality  strange  to  his  ex- 
perience. Her  fervor  matched  his;  she  gave  herself 
enough  to  increase  his  desire,  yet  withheld  wilfully  with 
that  simulation  of  the  chase  which  blows  up  the  flame 
to  its  maddest  height.  At  length,  the  racking  storm 
quiescent  for  a  moment,  he  knelt  weakly  beside  her,  spin- 
drift battered  by  the  inner  surge  of  the  tempest. 

"I'm  married,"  he  parroted  his  earlier  statement. 

"I  know " 

The  stored-up  frenzy  shook  him  in  restless  helpless- 
ness, overcoming  all  restraints.  "I'll  leave  Jane  to-mor- 
row, if  you  say.  .  .  .  Anything  you  want —  There's 
nothing  you  can't  have  from  me.  Just  say  it — now — 
Hurt  me  some  way " 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  you  dear  big  silly  boy.  I 
love  you." 


THE  CLASH 

He  brought  her  head  down  until  he  could  feel  her 
parted  teeth  lightly  touching  his  neck.  "Hurt  me  .  .  . 
kill  me.  .  .  ." 

An  icy  shiver  of  rapture  gripped  him  as  the  tiny  teeth 
tightened ;  as  if  the  fangs  of  the  serpent  of  forbidden  love 
tentatively  touched  him,  gloating  in  their  power  .  .  . 
saving  him  for  further  sacrifice. 

"There.     .     .     .     Are  you  satisfied,  Mr.  Lover?" 

Curbing  the  tumult  in  his  blood,  he  drew  up  a  chair 
and  faced  her.  "I  ...  we  mustn't  let  this  happen 
again,  Louise  ma  cherie.  Kisses  .  .  .  and  all  ...  I  once 
said — do  you  remember? — are  only  the  preludes  to 
the  finale  of  love.  I  am  married;  it  won't  hurt  me;  but 
you're — you're,  not." 

Her  hand  rested  lightly  on  his.  "You  aren't  the  first 
man  who  has  .  .  .  loved  me.  You  needn't  worry 
about  .  .  .  me." 

Uncertainly  his  eyes  searched  the  liquid  deeps  of  hers. 
"Not  the  first?  .  .  ." 

She  flushed  unconsciously,  returning  his  level  look. 
Her  words  came  slowly.  "Why,  no,  inquisitive  Mr. 
Lover.  There  was  another  man  .  .  .  we  intended  to 
marry  .  .  .  I'm  glad,  anyhow."  The  last  three  sen- 
tences came  in  soft  haste;  such  frankness  embarrassed 
her.  She  covered  it,  changing  the  theme.  "It  isn't  fair 
to  Jane " 

"Life  isn't  fair  to  any  of  us."  His  compelling  gaze  was 
put  on  to  hide  the  fleeting  emotion  of  inner  timidity. 
"Where  shall  we  .  .  ." 

"Lydia  Hasson  isn't  nearly  as  ...  careful  as  the 
Tollivers.  They're  away  a  lot  .  .  ." 

She  readjusted  the  pillows  swiftly,  as  steps  and  scraps 
of  conversation  floated  up  the  hollow  shaft  of  the  cir- 
cular stairway.  "Hadn't  we  better  go?" 


296  MOUNTAIN 

The  Hassons  were  not  at  home,  when  he  called  two 
nights  later;  but  their  car  might  roll  up  any  minute. 
"This  is  tantalizing,  heart-love,"  he  complained. 

"It's  something  to  have  you  here,  anyway,"  as  she  cud- 
dled deeper  into  the  wide  couch-swing  behind  the  ferns 
on  the  wide  railing.  "We  must  be  careful.  If  Lydia 
suspected "  Expressive  eyes  capped  the  meaning. 

Jane  had  the  Cades  in  for  dinner,  the  next  night ;  when 
Pelham  arrived  from  the  office,  Harvey  was  entertain- 
ing the  women  with  a  nasal  rendition  of  Judge  Roscoe 
Little's  mannerisms  while  enunciating  a  decision  for  both 
sides  at  once.  The  lawyer's  welcome  contrasted  with 
some  hidden  constraint  beneath  Jane's  tempered  greet- 
ing. Throughout  the  meal  and  the  talk  afterwards  he 
sensed  that  something  was  wrong.  He  could  not  quite 
make  out  what  it  was ;  perhaps  it  lay  in  his  imagination. 

His  wife  swished  quickly  inside,  as  the  guests  chugged 
away,  leaving  him  to  rearrange  the  porch  chairs  and  fol- 
low more  slowly.  Something  was  up,  that  was  clear. 

She  s.at  at  her  living-room  desk,  a  litter  of  letters  hur- 
riedly pulled  out  before  her.  At  his  entrance,  she  raised 
frosty  eyes  to  his.  Without  words  she  observed  him. 
Disquieted  by  the  confident,  almost  hostile  stare,  he  sat 
heavily,  clutching  a  handy  magazine  from  the  fresh  pile 
beneath  the  reading  lamp. 

She  did  not  speak.  He  exhaled  noisily,  and  turned  to 
the  opening  story. 

"I  met  Lane  Cullom  this  afternoon,"  she  began  in  a 
moment,  her  voice  leveled  and  restrained. 

"What  did  he  have  to  say?" 

"He  told  me  about  .  .  .  about  your  driving  with  that 
Richard  woman  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Mmm.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  is  a  friend  of  line's.  He 
introduced  me,  I  believe." 


THE  CLASH  297 

Her  eyes  fired.  "You  said  you  were  at  strike  head- 
quarters." 

"So  I  was,  until  I  took  a  little  run  out  Hazelton  way. 
Then  I  came  back  and  finished  up  my  work,"  he  lied 
recklessly. 

"He  saw  you  at  Catawba.  That's  ten  miles  beyond 
Hazelton.  .  .  .  You  didn't  get  back  until  midnight  last 
night,  Pelham." 

"Why,  I  was  here  for  supper !  Then  I  had  to  go  down 
town  .  .  ." 

"You  were  with  Miss  Richard  again."  She  ventured 
a  chance  shot. 

His  jaw  stiffened,  the  occasional  look  of  childish  petu- 
lance smoldering  around  his  eyes.  ''What  if  I  was?  Do 
you  expect  me  to  be  locked  in  by  a  keeper  every  night?" 

"You  never  mentioned  her  .  .  .  except  meeting 
her." 

His  mind  squirmed.  "We  have  so  much  else  to  talk 
about." 

She  pushed  the  disorder  of  letters  backward  with  a 
gesture  of  irritation.  "It  was  a  risk  marrying  you. 
Every  one  said  so ;  you  had  been  splendid  with  me,  but 
before  that — you  told  me  yourself — you'd  switched  from 
this  girl  to  that.  .  .  .  You  had  something  up  with 
'Thea  Meade,  I  never  asked  what.  .  .  .  And  the 
girls  while  you  were  in  college,  Nellie  Tolliver  and  the 
rest.  I  never  minded  them ;  that  was  before  I  knew  you. 
But  this.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  have  no  shame,  even  if 
you  haven't?" 

"What  a  lot  of  side  about  nothing!  Here  I  merely 
meet  a  young  lady,  take  her  riding,  drop  by  to  see  her — 
what's  wrong  in  that?" 

Her  low,  tense  indictment  went  on,  partly  to  herself. 
"I  always  promised  myself  that  I  wouldn't  marry  a 


298  MOUNTAIN 

ladies'  man.  It  isn't  so  much  what  you've  done  in  this 
case,  as  the  tendency,"  she  continued  illogically.  "If 
everything  was  above-board,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that 
you  were  with  her  yesterday  afternoon  and  night?" 

"Because  it  was  my  business,  and  not  yours."  His 
tones  rose  angrily.  "Must  I  render  an  account  to  you 
for  every  minute  of  my  time?  Can't  I  have  some  self- 
respect  left?  Do  you  expect  to  keep  me  tied  to  your 
apron-strings  all  my  life?" 

"You  needn't  tell  me,  Pelham  Judson,  that  you  took  her 
riding  to  show  her  the  scenery.  I  know  you  better — by 
now.  She  made  a  few  large  eyes  at  you ;  you  thought  at 
once  that  you  saw  your  soul-mate.  Told  her  you  were 
misunderstood  at  home,  of  course — that  she  could  un- 
derstand you."  He  failed  completely  to  detect  the  scorn, 
intended  to  wither  his  defense. 

"What  if  I  did?  It's  true,  isn't  it?  We  get  along  finely 
on  lots  of  things,  Jane;  but  there  are  some  things  in  which 
we  can't  agree." 

"We  both  agree,  I  suppose,  that  the  marriage  agree- 
ment doesn't  call  for  you  to  make  love  to  other  girls, 
when  you  are  married  to  me.  Of  course,  you  kissed 
her " 

"What  if  I  did  ?"  His  retort  slipped  from  his  lips  too 
quickly;  he  wished  at  once  that  he  had  held  it  back. 
"There's  surely  no  harm " 

"I  won't  dare  hold  up  my  head  in  her  sight !" 

"We're  grown  men  and  women,  Jane.  We're  not  old 
fogies.  We  realize,  surely,  that  love  can't  be  bought  and 
sold,  to  be  locked  up  forever  in  a  marriage  license.  Love 
must  be  free;  and  when  it  comes " 

"You  can  have  your  'love'  as  free  as  you  wish,  Pel- 
ham.  Only,  count  me  out  of  it."  She  rose,  the  com- 
motion stirred  by  her  quick  motion  setting  the  loose  sheets 
flying,  drifting  to  the  new  carpet  they  had  been  so  proud 


THE  CLASH  299 

of  a  week  ago.  Furious,  she  stooped  to  pick  them  up,  her 
ire  mounting  as  the  unexpected  enormity  of  his  conduct 
became  apparent. 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,  Jane.  I  haven't  done  any- 
thing  " 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you've  done.  You've  let  a  passing 
fancy  for  a  woman  make  you  forget  that  you're  my  hus- 
band. I  won't  share  you  with  another  woman,  even  if  she 
will." 

"Why,  last  night,  when  I  came  home,  you  were  as 
loving " 

Her  glance  bayoneted  him.  "I've  told  you  before  of 
that  Allie  Durfield,  the  poor  girl  who'd  ended  up  on  But- 
ler's Avenue.  I've  told  you  the  bitterness  with  which  she 
said,  'You  engaged  girls  cause  us  the  trouble.  After  your 
man's  spent  an  evening  with  you,  we  pay  for  it.'  I  didn't 
understand  her  then;  I  do  now.  You  spend  the  eve- 
ning with  this  woman,  then  come  home  .  .  .  you  call 
me  loving!  I  wonder  you  can  look  me  in  the  face!" 

"You  exaggerate  everything,  as  usual.  We  haven't 
done  a  thing " 

"You've  kissed  her." 

"That  was  nothing." 

"It's  this  much.  Either  you  give  me  your  word  now 
that  you  will  not  see  her  again,  or — see  only  her  .  .  . 
and  whoever  else  your  fancy  dictates.  I'm  through.  I'll 
go  back  to  Mrs.  Anderson's  and  let  you  ...  let 
you  .  .  ."  Her  voice  broke ;  she  tumbled  weakly,  weep- 
ing and  distraught,  against  the  couch. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant.  She  rose,  flinging 
the  tears  flying.  "Keep  away !  How  dare  you  touch  me ! 
I  suppose  you  thought  I'd  cry  and  make  up?  .  .  . 
Will  you  give  me  your  word?"  There  was  a  plaintive 
affection  even  through  the  sternness.  "Dearest,  we  can't 
have  our  marriage  on  a  rotten  foundation." 


300  MOUNTAIN 

He  fumed  to  the  front  door  and  back,  the  discarded 
magazine  rustling  unnoticed  upon  the  scattered  letters. 
"I'll  do  anything  in  reason,  Jane.  But  this  is  unreason- 
able, and  you  know  it.  You  mustn't  carry  your  penchant 
for  running  away  from  situations  too  far."  She  flushed 
at  the  reference.  "I'll  agree,  of  course,  not  to  be  un- 
faithful ;  but  you  can't  choose  whom  I  may  and  may  not 
speak  to.  Common  decency It's  ridiculous." 

"We  can't  have  a  half-way  marriage.  This  has  gone 
too  far.  .  .  .  Make  your  choice.  You  can't  burn 
both  ends  of  your  candle.  .  .  ." 

"Anything  within  reason,  Jane." 

"You'll  promise,  then?" 

"No."  The  cruel  monosyllable  crushed  the  joy  rising 
in  her  voice.  "It's  too  ridiculous,"  he  repeated. 

There  was  a  dangerous  hush  in  her  voice.  "You  un- 
derstand the  alternative  ?  I  leave  to-morrow." 

"If  you're  bound  to  be  foolish,  I  can't  stop  you.  I 
won't  force  you  to  stay  here." 

"I  should  say  not!" 

"You'll  come  to  your  senses  soon  enough.  A  good 
night's  sleep  will  cure  your  tantrum." 

Casually  he  jerked  a  match  against  the  sole  of  his 
shoe.  The  sputtering  head  spun  smokily  into  the  carpet. 
He  stamped  it  out,  and  lit  another.  Shielding  the  flame 
from  the  night  breeze,  he  relit  his  pipe.  When  he  looked 
up,  she  had  left  the  room. 

He  knocked  considerately  on  her  door  at  breakfast 
time.  A  muffled  voice  told  him  that  she  had  a  headache, 
and  was  not  coming  out.  Well,  if  she  was  going  to  act 
that  way!  She  was  bound  to  see  the  matter  more  rea- 
sonably. Probably  she  was  ashamed  now  to  admit  that 
she  had  been  wrong. 

He  was  glad  that  he  had  only  admitted  one  kiss.    .    .    . 

Disturbed  at  the  thought  of  the  unfinished  quarrel,  he 


THE  CLASH  301 

ran  out  unannounced  to  the  house  for  lunch.  Voluble 
Lily,  her  eyes  rolling,  informed  him  that  Miss'  Jane  had 
left  an  hour  before,  and  that  her  trunk  had  gone  too. 
"An'  she  said  dat  you'ud  know  whar  she  had  gone,  Mr. 
Judson." 

"That's  all  right,  Lily.  You  needn't  have  supper  for  me 
to-night." 

Angry  with  himself,  with  the  inquisitive  negro,  with 
the  fascination  of  Louise,  which  had  precipitated  this, 
most  of  all  with  headstrong  Jane,  he  shot  past  the  traffic 
policeman  into  the  swirl  of  the  city.  He  would  show  his 
wife  that  she  couldn't  keep  him  under  her  little  finger ! 


XXV 

THE  next  day  began  the  trial  of  Ed  Cole,  for  the 
killing  of  John  Dawson.  Militia,  equipped  by 
profits  from  the  mountain's  wealth,  guarded  the  court- 
house; the  strikers,  realizing  that  their  salvation  lay  in 
preventing  an  armed  clash,  ignored  the  provocative  slurs 
and  taunts  of  these  guardians  of  order;  but  the  glint 
of  guns  followed  wherever  they  were,  a  continuing  men- 
ace. Ben  Spence  had  finally  twisted  a  half-hearted  con- 
sent from  the  county  prosecutor  to  let  him  act  with  the 
State.  "But  they  double-cross  me  every  chance  they 
get,  Judson,"  he  said  as  they  walked  to  the  county  court- 
house together.  "That  young  Chippen,  who  is  about  as 
much  of  a  lawyer  as  I  am  a  South  Sea  Islander,  is  to 
handle  the  State's  case — the  youngest  and  poorest 
hanger-on  around  the  county  attorney's  office.  And 
against  him,  Dick  Mabry,  and  Hilary,  Leach,  Pugh  and 
Garfunkel !" 

"They're  a  good  criminal  firm " 

"Best  in  the  South.  Darned  fools,  three  of  them; 
Tipton  Leach  is  a  lawyer.  Darned  crooks,  all  four.  The 
company  will  do  anything  to  get  the  nigger  off.  And 
'Willy'  Hawkes,  Tuttle's  old  partner,  holds  this  term!" 

Spence  took  his  seat  beside  Chippen,  Pelham  with  a 
row  of  socialists  just  behind.  Judge  Hawkes  entered 
with  his  usual  nervous  jerk,  twitching  his  apologetic 
way  to  the  raised  bench.  Richard  Mabry,  smiling  in 
velvety  assurance,  bowed  ostentatiously  to  His  Honor; 
the  defendant's  table  was  otherwise  empty.  Deputies  es- 
corted in  the  negro,  his  face  bright  with  a  frightened 

302 


THE  CLASH  303 

interest,  mixed  with  delight  at  his  sudden  importance,  and 
confidence  in  the  last  whispered  instructions  of  his  law- 
yers, given  half  an  hour  before.  The  court-room  filled 
rapidly;  there  was  an  uneasy  rustle,  a  half -restrained 
chatter. 

"Is  the  State  ready  to  proceed?"  came  the  case-weary 
accents  from  the  bench. 

"We  are  ready."  Chippen's  young  voice  wobbled  un- 
certainly. 

"The  defendant  ready?" 

"If  the  Court  please,"  in  Mabry's  meticulous  accents, 
"my  colleagues — in  a  moment " 

The  judge  leaned  back,  closing  his  eyes. 

A  sudden  hush  at  the  door.  A  stretching  of  necks 
from  all  the  fringes  of  the  room.  Walking  daintily, 
with  a  glaze  of  dignity  which  never  lost  its  underwash 
of  the  furtive,  came  Meyer  Garfunkel,  youngest  of  the 
firm.  Spence  leaned  forward  to  Pelham.  "Biggest  crook 
in  six  states !  Does  all  their  dirtiest  jobs.  .  .  .  They  al- 
ways come  in  this  way;  it  impresses  the  courthouse 
crowd." 

The  door  swung  again;  a  succession  of  breathless 
"There  he  is  !"-es,  as  Colonel  Lysander  G.  Pugh  stamped 
heavily  in,  with  his  invariable  atmosphere  of  busied 
haste,  bowing  affably  left  and  right,  his  weathered  broad- 
brim clutched  beside  his  brief  case. 

Another  shifting  of  interest.  Tipton  Leach,  narrow- 
eyed,  a  permanent  sneer  around  his  mouth,  walking 
slowly,  speculatively.  "He  is  the  brains,"  continued 
Spence.  "The  corporations  fear  him  like  sin,  in  dam- 
age cases.  He  bleeds  them  and  his  clients  indiscrimi- 
nately. But  he  knows  more  law  than  all  the  local  bench." 

Last  of  all,  preceded  by  his  law  clerk,  Zebulun  Hilary 
himself,  his  little  red  face,  under  the  thinned  mop  of 
white  hair,  sticking  out  of  his  wide  collar  like  a  turtle's. 


304  MOUNTAIN 

"Over  eighty,  and  indestructible!  Even  his  conscience 
is  asbestos." 

There  was  a  leisurely  deliberation  among  the  five 
counsel  for  the  defendant.  Five  heads  came  together, 
five  brains  bent  their  scheming  toward  freeing  the  ac- 
cused negro,  ten  eyes  quivered  with  satisfaction  at  the 
prospect. 

"Defendant  ready?"  The  jaded  judge  roused  himself 
to  make  this  interjection. 

Colonel  Pugh  rose  in  sallow  majesty,  his  vulture  eye 
sweeping  the  front  half  of  the  room  in  indiscriminate  de- 
fiance of  the  court,  the  State,  and,  if  necessary,  the 
whole  United  States.  Catch  Lysander  G.  Pugh  unready  ? 
Impossible!  In  precise  affability  his  round  tones  rolled 
out.  "The  defendant  is  ready,  if  it  please  Your  Honor." 
He  sat  down  in  complacent  vindication. 

An  irrepressible  ripple  of  appreciation  quivered 
through  the  place.  Here  was  a  lawyer  who  knew  how  to 
law! 

The  plea  of  "not  guilty"  was  entered;  the  panel  of 
talesmen  called  from  the  jury  room. 

Spence  leaned  over  to  Pelham  again.  "First  case  since 
the  Whitney  scandal  when  all  four  have  appeared  to- 
gether. They  have  the  perfect  system,  Judson.  Gar- 
f unkel  does  the  second-story  work ;  Leach  knows  enough 
law  for  all  four  of  them ;  Zeb  Hilary  and  Colonel  Pugh 
get  the  business.  They  belong  to  everything — there  isn't 
a  lodge  of  any  kind  that  they  don't  flock  to.  These  two 
go  into  every  political  fight,  one  on  one  side,  one  on  the 
other ;  they  get  'em  coming  and  going.  It'll  be  a  treat  to 
hear  them  address  the  jury."  He  closed  his  eyes  ex- 
pressively. "Whew !" 

Two  men  lounged  in  from  the  clerk's  office  and  took 
their  places  at  the  defendant's  table,  as  the  selection  of 
the  jury  began.  Pelham  watched  their  activity  in  be- 


THE  CLASH  305 

wilderment ;  as  each  name  was  called,  they  bent  over 
long  lists,  and  consulted  with  the  lawyers  while  the 
talesmen  were  being  examined.  He  noticed  the  defer- 
ence with  which  their  whispers  were  received. 

At  the  first  chance,  he  spoke  to  Spence  again.  "Who 
are  those — more  lawyers?" 

Ben  flashed  him  a  sudden  glance.  "Don't  you  know 
'Chicory'  Jasper,  and  Bill  Letcher?  They're  two  of  the 
company's  'jury  strikers' — 'jury  fixers.'  They  have  the 
dope  on  each  man;  interview  them  in  advance,  and  all. 
If  a  man's  ever  said  anything  against  a  corporation,  off 
he  goes." 

"But  is  that  .  .  .  legal?" 

"Supreme  Court  has  ruled  that  it  is."  He  turned  back, 
to  insist  on  Chippen's  challenging  a  venireman  who  had 
worked  in  the  company's  office  before  getting  state  em- 
ployment. 

Three  panels  were  exhausted,  before  twelve  good  men 
and  true  could  be  found  who  knew,  Pelham  judged  from 
their  answers,  nothing  whatever  about  unions  or  strikes ; 
who  had  never  heard  of  this  strike;  who  did  not  read 
the  papers.  Eight  were  farmers  from  distant  edges  of 
the  county,  one  was  a  bookkeeper  as  anemic  as  prose- 
cutor Chippen  himself,  two  were  small  business  men, 
and  the  last  a  nondescript  nonagenarian  who  called  him- 
self a  "watchman." 

Once  the  jury  was  chosen,  the  trial  went  swiftly 
enough.  The  State  called  the  policemen,  and  made  out 
a  prima  facie  case  against  the  negro.  In  answer  to  old 
Hilary's  glib  questions,  the  officers  confessed  that  the 
negro  had  claimed  self-defense ;  that  Dawson's  discarded 
pistol  had  an  indented  shell  in  it.  McGue's  evidence  as 
to  the  fake  telephone  call  helped;  but  the  case  for  the 
State  could  have  been  stronger. 

The  defense  evidently  intended  to  take  no  risks.    First 


306  MOUNTAIN 

they  put  on  several  of  those  present  at  the  mass  meeting 
when  Dawson  had  denounced  the  negro,  sympathizers 
with  the  Voice  of  Labor  machine.  Invariably  these 
swore  to  the  big  strike  leader's  unreasonable  anger 
against  the  expelled  member.  The  radical  union  men  in 
the  room  could  hardly  be  restrained  from  hissing;  but 
the  testimony  went  in,  and,  Pelham  noted,  Spence's  at- 
tack lacked  some  of  his  usual  vigor.  At  last  Cole  him- 
self was  called.  He  gave  his  evidence  with  that  easy 
circumspection  that  told  to  the  initiated  that  he  had  been 
thoroughly  coached.  Nor  could  cross-examination  twist 
any  of  his  statements. 

In  rebuttal  several  of  the  sincerer  strikers  were  put 
on;  but  this  last  minute  recourse  did  not  impress  the 
jury. 

The  final  speeches  for  the  defense  were  masterly. 
Colonel  Pugh  led  off,  and  in  vulture-like  gyrations  pic- 
tured the  incursion  of  this  carpet-bagger  from  the  North 
who  had  thrown  good  Adamsville  men  out  of  their  jobs, 
and  damaged  all  the  business  of  the  district ;  of  his  sense- 
less persecution  of  this  negro ;  of  Cole's  loyalty  to  the 
miners'  union,  and  the  death  of  his  brothers  on  the  moun- 
tain ;  and  finally,  of  the  negro's  own  act,  a  simple  defense 
of  the  life  which  God  gave  him. 

"They  claim  that  this  defendant  received  a  bribe  from 
a  man  then  an  ex-employee  of  the  company.  Who  says 
so?  One  John  McGue,  who  admits  he  is  now  under  in- 
dictment in  connection  with  this  strike.  There  is  no  cor- 
roboration;  Cole  denies  it,  Jim  Hewin,  a  deputy  sheriff, 
denies  it.  Believe  a  jail  bird  against  two  witnesses  like 
that?  Why,  they  cannot  even  invent  a  motive  to  ac- 
count for  the  fictitious  presence  of  this  fictitious 
money!  .  .  . 

"Are  we  to  have  it  written  down  forever  in  the  annals 


THE  CLASH  307 

of  Adamsville  that  a  black  man  comes  into  our  courts, 
and  does  not  get  justice  ?  Will  you  make  Ed  Cole  swing 
because  of  the  color  which  his  Creator  imposed  on 
him  ?  Will  you  gentlemen  be  connivers  at  the  legal  lynch- 
ing of  an  innocent  man?  Will  your  decision  be  that  a 
white  scoundrel  can  attempt  to  murder  a  negro,  and  that 
the  negro  must  die  for  a  man's  first  duty,  self-protec- 
tion?" 

He  ended  with  oratorical  sky-rockets,  and  sank,  seem- 
ingly exhausted,  into  the  considerate  arms  of  his  legal 
twin  brethren,  Garfunkel  and  Leach. 

Spence  came  next.  When  he  reached  the  cause  of  the 
strike,  his  words  rang  convincingly;  but  the  jury  were 
unsympathetic  to  this.  As  he  proceeded  to  the  case  be- 
fore him,  he  tried  to  tear  the  careful  web  of  evidence 
which  backed  up  the  negro's  claim;  the  talesmen  seemed 
impressed. 

Zebulun  Hilary's  concluding  speech  for  the  negro  found 
him  in  his  most  telling  mood.  He  had  been  a  leading 
pleader  at  the  bar  sixty  years  before ;  and  the  momentum 
of  that  stretch  of  time  had  multiplied  his  powers  of  per- 
suasion until  even  Pelham  had  to  confess  his  weird 
mastery  of  the  emotions  of  men.  He  riddled  the  case 
for  the  State;  there  was  no  evidence  to  contradict  the 
defendant's  candid  story.  He  pictured  the  desolate  Cole 
home,  now  sought  to  be  robbed  of  its  last  bread-winner; 
he  wrung  the  hearts  and  the  consciences  of  each  juryman 
with  powerful  emotional  onslaughts.  When  he  finished, 
an  acquittal,  unless  the  last  speaker  could  change  the 
trend,  seemed  inevitable. 

Chippen's  lame  summing  up  only  made  the  case  worse 
for  the  memory  of  John  Dawson. 

Pelham  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  Harvey  Cade  join- 
ing him.  "It's  sheer  mockery  of  justice,"  came  the  law- 


308  MOUNTAIN 

yer's  outraged  outburst.  "Lies,  lies,  lies!  And  Ben 
Spence  soldiering  on  the  job.  .  .  .  He  represents  the  of- 
ficial union  movement,  remember." 

"You  don't  think  he  would —  Pelham's  honest 

horror  was  written  all  over  his  face. 

"He  could  have  done  better.  As  for  that  Chippen,  it's 
the  rare  case  where  he's  smart  enough  to  know  that  a 
'not  guilty'  will  help  him  more  than  a  conviction.  This 
is  justice — in  Adamsville !" 

"And  always  so  bad?" 

"Why,  our  Supreme  Court,"  went  on  the  other  bit- 
terly, "has  granted  a  new  trial,  because  the  letter  V  was 
left  off  the  word  'defendants,'  and  again  because  an  T 
was  omitted  from  'malice.'  In  another  case,  where  the 
indictment  charged  that  'A  did  embezzle  from  B  his 
money,'  the  case  was  reversed,  because  the  Court  could 
not  determine  who  the  'his'  referred  to.  'To  make  it 
refer  to  B,'  said  the  learned  court,  'would  imply  that  the 
Grand  Jury  intended  to  charge  A  with  a  crime.'  What 
an  implication !  .  .  .  A  leading  magazine  recently  said 
that  the  criminal  administration  in  this  state  is  more 
scandalous  than  in  any  state  in  the  union.  It's  unspeak- 
able!" 

The  first  edition  of  the  Register  was  hot  with  headlines 
promising  war.  Pelham  took  a  copy  back  to  his  desk 
in  the  Charities'  Building,  and,  after  navigating  through 
excited  cables  of  submarine  sinkings,  and  profound  an- 
nouncements from  minor  Washington  officials,  found 
the  brief  mention  of  the  local  case.  The  jury  had 
rendered  the  expected  verdict  of  acquittal,  after  being 
out  less  than  half  an  hour. 

Pelham  fumbled  away  the  afternoon  at  his  desk,  self- 
disgusted  and  dispirited.  The  country  was  being  sucked 
into  the  red  whirlpool  of  war — a  self-inflicted  wounding 
of  the  white  race  amounting  almost  to  race  suicide. 


THE  CLASH  309 

Labor  everywhere  had  fought,  before  the  conflict,  to  pre- 
vent its  coming;  but  it  was  inherent  in  the  spread  of 
world-wide  capitalism.  Prussian  militarism  was  a  hate- 
ful contributing  factor;  but,  if  the  Germans  had  been 
merely  imperialists  like  the  British,  the  conflict  would 
have  come  just  the  same:  labor's  dumb  impotence  pre- 
vented the  one  saving  force  from  effective  prevention. 
The  German  socialists  had  been  traitors  to  the  interna- 
tional, except  for  scattered  heroes  like  Liebknecht  and 
Rosa  Luxemburg;  long  local  schooling  in  servitude  had 
been  too  strong.  The  Allied  comrades  had  not  been  much 
better,  despite  the  facts  that  the  British  Labor  Party 
promised  continued  agitation,  and  Italy  and  France  were 
hopeful.  Russia  alone  seemed  firm:  although  the  amaz- 
ing news  of  the  March  Revolution  had  been  followed  by 
information  that  the  new  government  contained  more 
bourgeois  than  revolutionary  elements.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  United  States  would  come  in.  There 
would  be  defections  among  the  socialists,  of  course;  but 
Pelham  prayed  that  the  mass  of  the  movement  would 
stand  untouched.  "I'll  stick,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"If  I'm  alone.  .  .  .  But  it  won't  be  that  bad." 

His  mind  turned  to  the  local  situation.  There  was 
hope  still,  in  the  nucleus  of  fighting  strikers — this  latest 
judicial  outrage  would  only  increase  their  determination 
to  defeat  the  company.  But  the  election  .  .  .  the  death 
of  Dawson  .  .  .  the  militia  .  .  .  this  decision  .  .  . 
Jane's  leaving.  .  .  .  Things  were  in  a  mess. 

Most  bitterly  of  all  he  felt  the  strike  situation.  This 
conflict  with  his  father  had  called  out  all  the  fighting 
vigor  in  his  blood ;  win  that,  and  he  would  have  achieved 
something.  ...  If  only  his  mother  could  have  seen  the 
justice  of  the  strikers'  side,  and  come  with  him!  That 
would  have  been  a  happy  household,  just  he  and  his  dear 
mother;  no  uncertain-tongued  Jane,  to  scold  at  him  for 


310  MOUNTAIN 

nothing,  and  embarrass  his  tangled  affairs  still  further 
by  leaving  him  without  any  cause, — certainly  without  any 
cause  that  she  knew  of.  She  was  utterly  unlike  his 
mother,  his  turbulent  wrath  told  him;  cold,  unsympa- 
thetic, un-understanding.  .  .  .  Sweet  in  a  way,  but  not 
what  he  needed.  .  .  . 

Well,  he  would  see  Louise  to-night. 


XXVI 

ON  the  way  to  the  Hassons',  he  sought  to  solve  the 
tangle  of  his  domestic  affairs. 

He  could  not  quite  account  for  the  errant  streak  in 
his  blood,  that  drove  him  so  joyfully  toward  the  soft 
arms  awaiting  him.  Surely  he  had  an  overplus  of  ideal- 
ism. .  .  .  Perhaps  this  was  a  part  of  it:  of  his  endless 
search  for  perfection  in  woman  .  .  .  for  some  woman, 
say,  who  held  the  magnificent  sweetness  his  mother  had 
received  as  the  dear  Barbour  heritage.  Louise  had  some- 
thing of  the  understanding  mother-spirit,  that  was  the 
mountain's,  that  was  his  own  mother's.  And  in  turn 
the  mountain  wildness  coursed  in  his  blood;  these  had 
been  his  emotions,  before  he  became  its  prodigal  child. 

The  girl  met  him  at  the  door,  wide-eyed,  a  little  wist- 
ful. "Well,  Mr.  Lover,  you  did  come !  Yesterday  was 
lonely.  ...  I  have  bad  news;  the  folks  have  changed 
their  plans;  they'll  be  back,  to-night.  .  .  .  We  can  take 
a  ride,  though." 

His  smiling  lips  straightened,  but  there  was  a  dancing 
glow  in  his  eyes.  "Get  your  coat,  girl,"  he  said  with 
affectionate  curtness. 

He  turned  from  Highland  Boulevard,  the  glitter  of  its 
lights  reflected  in  the  suave  luster  of  the  rain-damp 
pavement,  into  quieter,  less-lighted  Haviland  Avenue. 
Into  a  darkened  garage  ran  the  car.  Her  eyes  queried 
his.  He  pressed  off  the  lights. 

Over  the  cropped  grass  to  the  stone  steps;  inside  the 
darkened  porch  he  pulled  out  his  keys,  opened  the  door, 
led  into  the  expectant  hallway. 

3" 


312  MOUNTAIN 

"Your  .  .  .  home?" 

"Jane  is  away,"  he  said  briefly. 

The  shades  were  pulled  down  carefully,  a  light  lit. 
She  sat,  her  eyes  wide,  on  the  hall  couch,  adjusting  her 
skirts  in  the  light.  The  dull  gray  paper  brought  out  all 
of  her  ripe  rosy  loveliness;  he  paused,  struck  by  the 
picture.  ...  It  was  the  couch  on  which  he  had  last  seen 
Jane  sitting;  a  sardonic  inner  smile  disturbed  him. 

"I  don't  feel  that  this  is  right,  Pell — in  her  house — 
Her  deep  eyes  puckered  in  uncertainty. 

Dominant  lips  closed  her  protest;  she  rested  for  a 
fleeting  moment  against  him. 

On  the  steps'  landing  he  paused  to  point  out  tennis 
trophies  gleaming  against  the  dark  woodwork. 

Then  they  turned  again,  hand  in  hand,  up  the  car- 
peted rounds  to  the  dim  silence  above.  .  .  . 

Before  midnight  he  told  her  good-bye  on  the  Hasson 
porch. 

There  were  times,  in  the  two  weeks  which  followed, 
when  Pelham  viewed  himself  from  without,  with  a  defi- 
nite disgust;  when  he  realized  that  a  furtive  fraction  of 
love  could  never  make  up  for  the  big  gap  caused  in  the 
day's  doings  by  the  absence  of  Jane.  Once  Louise  had  to 
tease  him  out  of  this  mood. 

"I'm  leaving  you,  Mr.  Lover,  on  Wednesday.  .  .  . 
Make  my  last  three  days  pleasant." 

He  took  her  to  the  station.  As  they  entered  it,  two 
cars  disgorged  another  increment  of  the  militia. 

He  rode  to  the  first  stop  with  her. 

"You  were  a  good  lover,"  was  her  final  praise.  "Run 
down  to  the  coast  and  see  me  sometime.  ...  If  you  still 
want  me." 


XXVII 

IT  was  just  after  ten,  in  the  dry  heat  of  a  July  day  six 
weeks  later,  when  four  of  the  deputies  appeared  on 
the  road  at  the  entrance  to  the  miners'  shack  village,  and 
started  to  enter.  They  were  backed  by  a  squad  of  the 
new  Home  Guard,  who  had  come  to  help  out  the  militia, 
now  in  process  of  gradual  federalization. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  called  out  John  McGue,  the  only 
committeeman  at  the  moment  in  the  informal  town.  Pel- 
ham,  Joe  Mullins,  the  new  national  organizer,  and  a 
committee  were  visiting  the  governor,  to  protest  against 
two  exceptionally  brutal  clubbings  by  the  restlessly  in- 
active guards.  It  was  a  hopeless  trip,  except  as  a  pro- 
test. 

"You  hold  things  down,  McGue,"  Mullins  had  told 
him.  "It's  coming,  by  God!  They'll  consent  to  arbi- 
trate before  the  middle  of  August,  or  the  federal  govern- 
ment'll  step  in!  Four  new  camps,  man,  in  three  weeks 
— they  can't  get  any  more  men,  either,  for  love  or  money. 
We've  got  'em!" 

Things  were  looking  serious  for  the  company.  The 
Ed  Cole  verdict  had  reacted  against  it;  defections  from 
the  ranks  of  the  strike-breakers  were  frequent,  and  the 
output  was  hardly  a  third  of  that  of  the  summer  before 
the  strike. 

McGue  wondered  if  the  visit  of  the  guards  and  militia- 
men had  been  timed  to  fit  in  with  the  absence  of  most  of 
the  strike  leaders  in  Jackson.  "What  d'ye  want?"  he 
repeated. 


3H  MOUNTAIN 

"We  got  warrants  for  six  men."  The  deputy — it  was 
Huggins — started  to  walk  on  in ;  McGue  kept  his  place. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  there,"  Huggins  warned  him 
shortly. 

"Gimme  the  names;  we'll  git  the  men  fer  you.  No 
need  to  go  trampling  through  people's  houses  and  gar- 
dens, as  you  guards  did  last  week." 

"I'll  give  you  nothin'." 

The  voices  in  dispute  resounded  down  the  vacant 
roads.  Men,  hungry  men,  their  natures  warped  with  the 
long  unequal  struggle,  massed  in  a  shifting  background 
behind  the  rugged  committeeman. 

"Get  out  of  my  way,  or  I'll  jug  you  too." 

Silently  McGue  stepped  aside.  The  crowd  flattened 
back  against  the  flimsy  walls.  The  armed  guards,  grin- 
ning at  one  another,  jostling  and  joking,  penetrated 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  straggly  irregularity  of  the 
settlement. 

All  at  once  Huggins  caught  sight  of  an  undergrown, 
misshapen  boy  scowling  from  the  back  of  the  men  and 
women.  Pushing  them  aside,  he  shoved  to  the  spot,  the 
guards  close  behind.  His  hand  gripped  the  boy's  arm, 
until  he  winced. 

"Hey— whatcher " 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Aw,  you  lemme  'lone !    I  ain't  done  a  thing." 

"Take  him,  there."  He  shook  the  boy  savagely. 
"Your  name's  McGuire,  ain't  it?  Frank  McGuire — I 
know  you." 

McGue  came  up  again,  holding  in  his  irritation. 
"What  do  you  want  this  boy  for?" 

"None  of  your  damn'  business!  We  got  a  warrant 
for  him,  see?  You  keep  out,  or " 

Several  of  the  deputies  in  the  rear  clicked  their  ham- 
mers suggestively,  snickering  at  the  one-sided  joke.  A 


THE  CLASH  315 

disturbed  buzz  wavered  up  and  down  the  massed  strik- 
ers. As  Huggins  turned  up  the  wider  road  again,  it 
grew  in  volume  into  a  subdued  stream  of  boohs,  catcalls, 
hisses,  low  threats.  He  turned  incautiously,  facing  them. 

"Don't  you  follow  me,  you  gutter  trash,  or  I'll  jug  the 
lot  of  you !" 

A  weak  satiric  voice  came  from  behind  a  house.  "Aw, 
will  you,  though!" 

McGue's  eyes  grinned;  but  his  face  remained  set,  as 
he  doggedly  kept  pace  with  the  head  of  the  marching 
guards. 

Two  more  men  were  taken  in  the  same  methodical 
fashion.  The  surging  procession  was  now  near  the  open 
center  of  the  location,  where  a  square  had  been  left  as 
a  common,  with  the  artesian  well  at  one  end. 

Girls  and  women  quietly  replaced  the  men  in  the 
front  line,  jeering  and  cursing  at  the  flushed  faces  of 
the  soldiers,  occasionally  stumbling  awkwardly  against 
them.  There  was  a  scream  as  a  soldier  turned  suddenly 
on  a  pretty  red-haired  girl,  and  caught  her  wrist.  An 
old  Irish  virago  beside  clutched  his  shoulder  and  flung 
him  sideways. 

"Touch  my  daughter,  you  dirty  bastard,  and  I'll  tear 
your  heart  out!" 

Huggins  re-formed  his  men  at  the  entrance  to  the 
square.  There  were  only  fifty  soldiers  in  line;  there 
were  already  several  hundred  of  the  tenters,  and  their 
number  swelled  constantly.  Of  course,  they  couldn't  do 
anything.  .  .  .  He  had  his  orders. 

The  stage  was  set  for  trouble.  Over  the  heads  of  the 
women  and  girls,  from  the  shelter  of  the  nearest  house, 
a  rock  whished — an  apple-sized  ore  boulder  from  the 
iron  heart  of  the  hill.  It  crunched  into  one  of  the  guards, 
square  on  his  cheek.  He  grunted.  An  uncertain  hand 
patted  his  dazed  face.  When  he  drew  it  away,  it  was 


316  MOUNTAIN 

smeared  with  blood;  the  stain  widened  over  his  collar 
and  breast. 

A  second  stone  came  from  the  opposite  side.  Then 
another  .  .  .  another.  .  .  . 

Two  deputies  fired  wildly  in  the  direction  of  the  hidden 
throwers. 

Out  of  the  dissolving  panorama  of  frightened  strikers 
came  a  spurted  crack,  a  spit  of  smoke.  One  of  the  depu- 
ties screamed,  was  supported,  writhing  terribly,  by  the 
men  on  either  side  of  him.  His  head  hung  limp. 

"Back  to  that  building,  there,"  boomed  Huggins,  point- 
ing to  the  distributing  store  at  the  mountain  end  of  the 
square. 

The  retreat  began.  The  strikers  eddied  backward 
from  the  cleared  place.  From  houses  along  the  way  un- 
expected bursts  of  rocks,  an  occasional  shot,  crashed 
into  the  close  ranks  of  the  law-enforcers. 

Four  or  five  revolvers  puffed  off  to  the  left.  A  guard 
dropped  his  gun,  shaking  his  hand  in  agony.  The  left 
third  of  the  soldiers  at  a  command  raised  their  rifles,  and 
blazed  away  at  the  infuriated  welter  of  retreating  hu- 
manity. A  madhouse  of  screams,  men  and  women  run- 
ning, two  bodies  settling  onto  the  stained  July  grass.  .  .  . 

Another  volley,  this  toward  the  right. 

"Take  that,  you "  screamed  a  deputy,  as  the 

startled  face  at  a  window  was  met  by  the  blaze  of  a 
rifle.  The  woman  hung  swaying  over  the  ledge ;  choking 
horribly,  she  trembled  further  and  further  out,  dropped 
hideously  upon  the  ground. 

At  the  storehouse  now.  "Hey,  you,  get  out  of  that," 
Huggins  commanded  the  strikers'  distributors. 

"This  is  our " 

The  sight  of  the  rifles  settled  the  matter.  The  two 
dead  guards  were  stretched  on  the  floor,  the  wounded 


THE  CLASH  317 

were  roughly  bandaged.  Huggins  phoned  the  facts  to  the 
militia  headquarters  on  the  mountain. 

"Said  for  us  to  wait  here,"  he  explained  to  the  army 
lieutenant  in  charge.  "It  'ud  be  suicide,  trying  to  get 
out.  For  all  we  know,  all  them  houses  is  full  of  strikers. 
There'll  be  two  companies  here  inside  of  an  hour.  By 
God,  we'll  do  for  'em  this  time!"  His  tone  shook  in 
fierce  rapture — the  man  hunt  was  on ! 

The  main  bulk  of  the  rifles  covered  the  big  open  field 
in  front;  small  parties  watched  toward  west,  south  and 
north,  to  warn  if  any  activity  showed  in  the  houses  fifty 
feet  away. 

There  was  no  water;  the  wounded  cursed  continually 
for  it.  Huggins  sent  a  party,  well  protected,  over  to 
the  well,  seventy  feet  away,  to  bring  back  two  bucket- 
fuls.  One  of  the  detail  was  shot  in  the  collar  bone,  but 
managed  to  make  his  way  back  with  the  bearers  of  the 
precious  drink. 

There  was  a  shouting  from  in  front.  "Hey,"  came  a 
voice,  waving  a  white  towel  raised  high  on  a  clothes- 
pole.  "Can  we  talk  with  your  man  in  charge?" 

It  was  Edward  McGuire,  the  father  of  little  hump- 
backed Frank,  who  had  been  arrested,  but  had  slipped 
away  in  the  disorderly  retreat  to  the  store.  He  had  been 
selected  as  one  of  the  older,  more  law-abiding  of  the 
miners,  to  bring  the  flag  of  truce. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  Huggins  demanded  belligerently. 
"Ain't  no  use  to  talk;  I  got  a  regiment  comin'  in  half 
an  hour,  will  clean  up  this  whole  damned  nest  of  rats." 

"Can  I  come  closer?"  called  McGuire. 

There  was  no  answer.  He  came  over  to  where  the 
lieutenant  of  the  guard  stood,  clutching  the  pole  with  its 
white  symbol  high  above  his  head. 

"Well?" 


3i8  MOUNTAIN 

"Can  we  pick  up  those  bodies  out  on  the  field?  You 
can  get  any  of  your  men  there.  We'll  carry  this  flag,  sir 
— one  of  'em  's  my  son,  I  think." 

The  deputy  beside  Huggins  stepped  two  feet  forward. 
His  revolver  reversed,  he  brought  it  down  with  all  his 
force  on  the  undefended  grizzled  head.  McGuire 
dropped  in  a  heap. 

All  the  while,  down  the  dusty  July  road,  Major  Grin- 
nell,  of  the  State  Guards,  had  double-quicked  his  men. 
They  reached  the  railroad  spur  just  out  of  sight  of  the 
shack  village.  Here  he  divided  his  force.  The  company 
automobiles,  equipped  with  searchlights  and  machine 
guns,  had  gone  by  the  county  road  to  the  eastern  end  of 
the  colony,  behind  the  sand  ridge,  to  cut  off  possible  re- 
treat. The  motley  mass  of  deputies,  mine  guards  and 
special  police  cut  in  after  them,  to  work  back  with  the 
machines.  The  militia  marched  above  the  camp,  close 
to  the  store  held  by  Huggins.  After  a  fifteen  minutes' 
wait,  they  proceeded  in  open  formation,  converging 
toward  the  common. 

The  strikers,  stunned  by  the  brutal  killing  of  McGuire, 
swirled  together  beyond  the  well,  hidden  by  the  jerry- 
built  shacks. 

"We  gotter  rush  'em,"  "Micky"  Ray  insisted,  weaving 
in  and  out  of  the  perturbed  herd,  followed  by  several  ad- 
herents as  violent.  "Damn  it,  why  doncher  rush  'em, 
before  they  sneak  out?" 

McGue  confronted  him  again.  "Still  at  it,  you  fool? 
They'd  shoot  us  down  like  dogs " 

"They'll  shoot  us  anyway.  'Fraid  of  'em,  are  you, 
Johnny?"  another  taunted. 

"We  gotter  rush  'em.  Get  your  guns  ready,"  com- 
manded Ray.  "All  that  aren't  afraid,  line  up  behind  Bill 
there." 

He  turned  his  back  to  round  up  others.     The  line 


THE  CLASH  319 

doubled  on  him,  an  excited  commotion  shaking  it.  He 
tried  to  break  his  way  clear,  to  understand  what  they 
were  saying. 

"What  the " 

"Aincher  heard  her?" 

"Nellie  seed  'em !" 

"All  the  soldiers  is  come!  They're  right  behind  the 
store !" 

"They're  everywhere !" 

"You  see  ?"  stormed  McGue,  shoving  Ray  to  the  side. 
"Everybody  below  the  common." 

They  made  the  change.  The  militia  assembled  before 
the  storehouse,  extended  their  wings,  beat  down  the  open 
space  and  the  lanes  parallel  with  it.  Undetermined,  the 
strikers  waited,  poorly  armed,  but  sheltered  behind 
friendly  walls. 

Huggins'  big  voice  came  faintly.  "Lay  down  your 
guns,"  he  shouted.  "The  first  man  who  shoots,  we'll 
fire.  Do  you  surrender?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"We'd  better,"  insisted  McGue,  perspiring  from  heat 
and  excitement.  "They  ain't  got  anything  on  us.  You 
can't  fight  rifles  with  bare  hands." 

"Hell,  no!  You  saw  what  they  did  to  Ed  McGuire. 
Let's  kill  the  uglies " 

"Kill  'em!"  Ray  adopted  a  new  slogan.  "Kill  'em! 
Kill  'em,  I  says." 

They  wavered.  The  blistering  sun  beat  fiercely  on 
the  metallic  barrels  of  the  menacing  rifles. 

A  dreadful  tumult  of  shots,  shouts,  indescribable 
noises,  broke  out  in  the  rear.  The  shuddering  sound  of 
machine  guns  pelted  whistling  hail  through  the  sparse 
tree  leaves  above. 

Out  of  the  blind  turmoil  came  running  figures,  blas- 
pheming in  horrible  rage.  "They're  there  too !" 


320  MOUNTAIN 

"It's  another  regiment!" 

"They're  killing  everybody!" 

The  noise  grew  louder. 

Major  Grinnell  halted  at  the  head  of  his  men.  McGue, 
surrounded  by  a  cowed  hundred  of  the  strikers,  walked 
quietly  out.  "Do  you  want  to  arrest  us  ?" 

Methodically  the  houses  and  alleys  were  combed,  until 
close  to  five  hundred  men,  women  and  children  had  been 
herded  into  the  trampled  square.  One  by  one  they  were 
marched  before  the  guards  and  deputies ;  a  hundred  and 
nine  were  pointed  out  largely  at  random,  as  having  had 
some  part  in  the  attack.  The  rest  who  were  involved 
had  slipped  away  between  the  two  lines  of  attackers. 
Wailing  and  lamenting,  the  former  were  herded  away 
into  the  overcrowded  jails. 

That  night  the  militia  encamped  in  the  remains  of  the 
settlement.  Fire  had  destroyed  the  western  third  of  the 
houses,  a  fire  which  the  soldiers  made  no  attempt  to  put 
out. 

Not  a  striker  was  permitted  to  enter  the  barred  area. 

Jim  Hewin,  back  on  duty  as  a  sheriff's  deputy,  led  one 
of  the  squads  that  scoured  the  surrounding  woods  the 
next  morning  for  fugitives  and  bodies.     "Hey,  'Red/- 
they pipped  somebody  here,"  he  explained. 

It  was  the  rocky  road  behind  the  settlement,  which 
led  above  the  wet-weather  falls  of  the  brook  that  eased 
away  into  Shadow  Creek.  The  oasis  of  grass  in  the 
middle  of  the  sandy  road  was  darkly  muddied  by  a  mix- 
ture of  dirt  and  blood.  A  cap,  crumpled,  the  visor  torn 
loose,  lay  in  the  clawed  sand  beside  it. 

"Red"  Jones  ran  up.  Hewin's  quick  eyes  zigzagged 
eagerly.  "Look,  'Red' — he  went  here!" 

The  trail  of  blood  began  again  a  few  feet  beyond  the 
road.  A  heavy  body  had  been  dragged  over  succulent 
pokeberry  plants :  moist  pithy  leaves  swung  crushed,  ooz- 


THE  CLASH  321 

ing  their  thick  sap ;  dark  berries  lay  mashed  upon  a  soil 
purple  with  their  blood. 

They  parted  the  sumach  and  haw  bushes  screening  the 
falls. 

The  slimed  slope  of  gray  rocks  was  darkened  by  a 
muddy  reddish  trickle  of  water.  It  was  a  broken  stretch 
of  seventy  feet  to  the  green  stagnancy  below. 

"Hey,  'Red' "  Jim's  voice  dropped;  his  shaking 

hand  pointed  to  an  awkward  mass  half  way  down  the  in- 
cline. 

They  slid  cautiously,  clutching  the  rough  crag  edges 
beside  the  water. 

Caught  in  one  of  the  shelf-flaws  of  the  rock,  his 
miner's  shirt  coagulated  with  blackened  blood,  his  stained 
overalls  soggy  with  the  water,  lay  a  dead  negro. 

Hewin  turned  the  body  over;  his  fingers  shrank  and 
slipped  at  the  moist  unpleasantness. 

They  peered  into  the  dead  face  of  Ed  Cole.  A  cling- 
ing mould  of  leaves  half  obscured  the  deputy's  badge  on 
his  greasy  lapel. 

Jim's  eyes  expanded.  "Cole,  you  know — he  shot 
John  Dawson." 

They  regarded  the  face  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Got  any  terbaccer,  Jim?" 

"Red"  lit  up  his  pipe. 

"Guess  we'll  tote  'im  back — down  that  way,  huh?" 

The  dank  and  dripping  bundle  was  carried  and  dragged 
through  the  scratching  underbrush.  When  they  reached 
the  road  at  last,  they  rested  it  on  a  scaly-bark's  littered 
knees. 

Jim  rubbed  the  sweat  off  from  his  forehead  with  his 
soaked  sleeves.  "Hell,  he's  heavy,  ain't  he?  This'll  do. 
.  .  .  You  see  Huggins;  he'll  send  a  wagon."  His  hands 
pushed  throughout  his  trousers  pockets.  "Did  you  gimme 
them  matches  back?" 


XXVIII 

GOVERNOR  TENNANT— his  pet  name  among 
friends  and  enemies  alike  was  "Whiskey-barrel 
Tennant" — dismissed  the  committee  with  a  few  curt  plati- 
tudes about  law  and  order.  When  they  reached  Adams- 
ville,  they  found  the  shack  colony  sacked,  the  strikers 
and  their  dependents  either  jailed  or  scattered.  The 
militia  had  done  a  thorough  job. 

Wearily  Pelham  dragged  himself  to  the  meeting  at 
Arlington  Hall. 

Jack  Bowden,  of  the  local  miners'  organization,  who 
always  came  like  a  bird  of  carrion  at  evil  news,  secured 
the  floor,  and  moved  that  the  strike  committee  be  dis- 
charged and  the  strike  settled  on  whatever  terms  could 
be  secured.  "They've  bashed  in  our  heads,"  he  said 
vigorously,  "Do  we  want  'em  to  cut  our  throats  as 
well?" 

There  was  no  John  Dawson  to  reply  to  him.  From 
many  groups  of  the  strikers  came  discouraged  support 
for  the  motion.  Most  of  the  old  tried  unionists  saw 
nothing  to  be  gained  in  wasting  energy  on  a  dead 
struggle. 

"Makes  mighty  little  difference  now,"  Pelham  whis- 
pered hopelessly  to  Serrano,  seated  in  explosive  agita- 
tion beside  him. 

"You'll  never  quit!" 

"Not  quit.  .  .  .  But  start  a  newer  fight,  with  some 
chance  of  winning  it." 

One  violent  industrial  unionist  demanded  the  floor, 

322 


THE  CLASH 


323 


and  pounded  out  that  the  strike  must  continue,  with  a 
general  tie-up  of  every  trade,  organized  and  unorgan- 
ized, in  Adamsville. 

"One  big  union!"  he  continued  to  shout,  even  after 
the  ready  ushers  had  pushed  him  into  his  seat. 

"That's  the  sort  of  fool  advice,"  Jack  Bowden  said, 
"that's  lost  this  strike.  For  it  is  lost;  and  I'll  tell  you 
who's  lost  it.  Not  the  company,  nor  Paul  Judson's 

money,  not  his  murdering  gunmen;  but "  and  his 

lean  arm  pointed  straight  to  Pelham,  "but  crazy  radicals 
in  and  out  of  the  union  movement;  lounge  Socialists, 
lemonade  trade-unionists,  men  who  claim  to  be  with 
us,  but  were  born  with  scab  hearts.  It's  them  and  their 
kind  have  led  to  this  smash-up.  And  the  sooner  we 
reckernize  it,  the  better!" 

There  was  a  tossing  roar  of  applause  at  this.  The 
crowd,  Pelham  grasped  at  once,  was  ready  to  quit,  and 
only  wanted  someone  to  blame  for  the  failure. 

Nils  Jensen,  still  under  bond  pending  the  decision  of 
his  case  by  the  Supreme  Court,  answered  the  charge  at 
once.  "Men,  brothers,"  his  voice  rang  out,  "I've  been  a 
miner,  and  a  member  of  this  local,  for  thirteen  years.  I 
don't  know  who  is  to  blame,  but  I  know  who  isn't — and 
that's  the  Socialists  among  us.  We've  fought,  in  the 
union  and  at  the  polls,  day  in,  day  out,  while  your  old- 
fashioned  unionists  have  been  pulling  down  fat  jobs 

under  Democratic  sheriffs, "  a  hit  at  Pooley,  who 

had  been  first  deputy  under  the  previous  official.  "I'm 
not  in  favor  of  going  on  now,  if  the  crowd's  ready  to 
stop.  I  can  get  work,  here  or  somewhere  else,  in  or 

out  of  jail, "  There  was  a  friendly  smile  at  this. 

"I  know  that  the  war  between  our  class  and  the  Paul 
Judson  class  will  go  on  until  classes  are  ended.  If  you're 
to  blame  anybody,  blame  ignorant  laborers,  who  can't 
see  that  scabbing  against  their  fellows  cuts  their  own 


324  MOUNTAIN 

throats,  and  betrays  their  wives  and  children.  Blame  the 
labor  fakers,  the  crooked  bunch  who  'lead'  you  so  that 
their  pockets  are  lined  for  delivering  your  votes  to  the 
old  parties,  while  you  get  nothing.  And  when  Jack  Bow- 
den  says  that  Comrade  Pelham  Judson,  as  good  a  social- 
ist as  any  one  of  us,  is  a  lounging  lemonade  socialist, 
with  a  scab  heart,  he  lies,  and  he  knows  he  lies !" 

The  chair's  rappings  were  lost  in  the  outcries.  "Order !" 
"Order!"  broke  all  over  the  hall.  An  uproar  circled 
around  Jensen  and  also  Bowden ;  for  a  minute  the  meet- 
ing threatened  to  break  into  a  riot. 

Jack  Bowden  jumped  up  to  the  platform,  a  document 
waving  over  his  head.  "Brothers!  .  .  .  Brothers!  .  .  . 
Let  me  answer  him !"  He  paused,  while  they  quieted. 
"I'll  answer  him.  When  I  moved  that  the  committee  be 
discharged  without  thanks,  I  knew  what  I  was  doing. 
When  I  charged  that  'Mister' "  (with  an  ugly  sneer) 
"Pelham  Judson,  son  of  the  vice-president  of  the  Birrell- 
Florence- Mountain  Iron  and  Steel  Company,  was  born 
with  a  scab  heart,  I  knew  what  I  was  doing !" 

Cries  of  "Shame!"     "Shame!"    "Throw  him  out!" 

He  kept  his  place.  As  he  waved  the  mysterious  docu- 
ment before  their  faces,  the  cries  weakened;  curiosity 
hushed  them. 

"One  member  of  that  committee,  a  man  who  had  no 
right  on  it,  for  he  had  no  union  card " 

"As  Paul  Judson  has!"  Jensen  cut  in  sharply,  amid 
indignant  demands  to  keep  quiet. 

"One  member  of  that  committee  has  been — a  scab! 
As  he  may  be  a  scab  again,  when  he  pleases  to.  I  have 
here,"  he  opened  the  paper,  so  that  the  large  red  seals 
were  displayed  to  all,  " — affidavits  from  Connecticut, 
proving  that  'Mister'  Pelham  Judson,  'Comrade'  Judson 
if  brother  Jensen  wants  to  call  him  that,  in  October,  1913, 
in  New  Haven,  acted  as  a  scab  during  a  strike  of  con- 


THE  CLASH  325 

ductors  and  motormen  on  the  New  Haven  Electric  Com- 
pany, and  helped  to  break  that  strike.  He's  kept  quiet 
about  it;  I  can't.  And  I  say  that  such  a  man  should  be 
kicked  out  of  all  affiliation  with  the  labor  movement,  here 
or  elsewhere !" 

"It's  not  true,"  shrieked  Jensen  and  a  score  of  fervid 
socialists.  One  brawny  Norwegian  started  for  the  plat- 
form. "I'll  tear  out  dat  dam'  liar's  tongue."  The  ser- 
geant-at-arms  pulled  him  back. 

Pelham  rose,  pale  and  trembling. 

The  chair  picked  him  out.  "Does  brother  Judson  de- 
sire the  floor?" 

There  was  an  intent  silence,  as  he  stood,  alone,  sur- 
rounded by  the  hostile  hundreds  of  the  men  and  women 
he  had  fought  for.  He  tried  to  begin. 

Bowden  walked  across  the  platform,  toward  him.  "Is 
it  true,  or  not?" 

Pelham's  swollen  tongue  licked  his  lips.  At  length  he 
spoke,  quietly,  yet  so  penetratingly  that  every  syllable 
reached  his  audience.  "I  can  explain "  he  began. 

"Is  it  true?"  Bowden  led  the  demand  of  hundreds 
of  angered  throats. 

He  faced  them  unflinchingly.  "It  is  true.  I  can  ex- 
plain— 

The  hooting  and  jeering  broke  with  savage,  almost 
bestial  fury.  Doggedly  Pelham  kept  to  his  feet,  in  spite 
of  the  efforts  of  Serrano  and  others  to  drag  him  down. 
"This  is  terrible,  comrade,"  whispered  Serrano.  "You'd 
better  leave " 

At  length  Bowden  got  the  eye  of  the  chair  again.  "I 
move  that  we  give  five  minutes  to  Mr.  Judson  to  'ex- 
plain', as  he  calls  it,  his  scabbing." 

In  simple  language  Pelham  told  of  his  training  in  a 
home  dedicated  to  the  fight  against  labor;  of  his  acts  at 
New  Haven,  while  a  college  student ;  of  his  conversion  to 


326  MOUNTAIN 

socialism  and  the  cause  of  labor.  He  did  not  mention 
what  it  had  cost  him;  a  few  remembered  this.  When 
he  came  to  his  New  Haven  experiences,  the  hissing  be- 
gan, swelled  in  volume.  All  of  the  chair's  entreaties 
could  not  stop  it. 

"If  you  think,  comrades,  that  my  usefulness  on  this 
committee  is  over,  I  hereby  resign.  But  I  can  assure  you 
that  nothing  will  shake  my  efforts  in  the  cause  for  which 
I  have  fought,  am  fighting,  and  will  continue  to  fight." 

No  eloquence  could  have  moved  them.  The  mass 
psychology  of  the  meeting  demanded  a  victim ;  here  was 
one  before  them.  The  shrivelling  strike  months  of  tur- 
moil and  undernourishment  had  thrown  them  back  into 
a  lower,  more  barbarous  state;  their  sense  of  justice  was 
perverted  from  ultimate  social  equality  and  order  into  a 
primitive  condemnation  of  the  accursed  thing  that  had 
brought  them  into  this  predicament.  They  were  only 
too  ready  to  throw  a  Jonah  to  the  deep',  as  an  expiatory 
sacrifice  to  the  omnipotent  god  who  doled  out  bi-weekly 
pay-envelopes.  They  were  in  a  starving  panic  to  get 
back  to  the  skimpy  flesh-pots  of  a  darker  Egypt. 

It  was  moved  and  seconded  that  the  resignation  be 
accepted.  An  earburst  of  "ayes"  were  for  the  proposi- 
tion ;  one  or  two  scattering  voices  registered  weak  nega- 
tives. 

"The  motion  is  carried." 

The  sudden  blow  had  crushed  all  opposition.  The 
resolutions  to  end  the  strike  were  accepted  without  de- 
bate. 

Jack  Bowden,  highly  satisfied  with  the  night's  work, 
went  over  to  the  state  office  with  Bob  Bivens  and  John 
Pooley.  "Reckon  I  better  destroy  that?"  he  grinned, 
handing  a  letter  out  to  the  big  State  president. 

It  was   from  Henry  Tuttle,  on  the  company's  legal 


THE  CLASH  327 

stationery,  enclosing  the  affidavits  relating  to  Pelham's 
activities  in  the  New  Haven  strike. 

The  letter  was  burned,  the  ashes  scattered. 

The  next  afternoon's  Register  informed  Pelham  of 
the  company's  terms,  which  were  to  take  back  all  except 
the  ringleaders,  some  twenty  in  number — he  noticed  the 
names  of  Jensen  and  the  committeemen  heading  it — at 
the  old  rate,  with  an  agreement  from  each  man  binding 
him  not  to  join  the  union.  The  strikers  under  arrest, 
continued  the  account,  would  be  discharged  in  all  prob- 
ability, except  in  cases  of  serious  nature. 

The  same  paper  contained  the  sparse  outline  of  an- 
other story,  which  Pelham  read  with  a  growing  horror. 

At  three-thirty  the  previous  afternoon,  an  old  man 
had  entered  the  mining  company's  office,  and  asked  for 
Paul  Judson. 

"What  name?" 

His  watery  blue  eyes  danced  peculiarly  beneath  stringy 
white  hair.  "He  doesn't  know  me.  It's  important." 

"We  must  have  your  name." 

Fumbling  first  on  one  foot,  then  the  other,  he  eyed  the 
uninterested  clerk  closely.  At  length  he  made  up  his 
mind.  "My  name  is  Duckworth — Christopher  Duck- 
worth, tell  him.  I've  come  about  the  settlement  of  the 
strike." 

She  marked  down  the  name,  snapping  to  the  drawer. 
"He's  out  of  town  to-day." 

"When  does  he  return?" 

"Maybe  late  this  evening  .  .  .  maybe  not  until  to- 
morrow." 

Suspicious  old  eyes  searched  her  face.  "Sure  he  isn't 
in?" 

"I  told  you  once,  didn't  I?" 

"He  may  return  to-day?" 


328  MOUNTAIN 

"Maybe." 

"I'll  wait." 

Passers  in  and  out  of  the  offices  remembered  his  shov- 
ing a  paper  hurriedly  into  his  pocket  as  they  neared. 

About  an  hour  later,  when  the  information  clerk  left 
for  a  few  minutes,  he  rose,  and  started  to  open  the  door 
marked  "Paul  Judson:  Private." 

"Where  you  going?"  an  accounting  clerk  demanded, 
watching  his  unusual  movements. 

"Mr.  Judson  wants  to  see  me." 

"He  isn't  there." 

He  caught  the  old  man  roughly  by  the  arm,  as  he  tried 
to  push  past. 

The  enfeebled  socialist  retreated  to  the  center  of  the 
room. 

"Give  him  this,"  his  quavering  tones  insisted,  pushing 
a  piece  of  paper  into  surprised  hands. 

The  clerk  looked  up  hurriedly,  some  warning  of  the 
unexpected,  the  dangerous,  reaching  him.  His  eyes 
caught  the  rusty  glint  of  metal. 

He  jumped.  At  the  same  moment,  the  roar  of  the 
shot  rattled  the  windows,  acrid  smoke  swirled  through- 
out the  room,  the  old  man's  legs  buckled  up.  He  fell 
quietly  to  the  floor;  his  shoes  scraped  the  flooring  once. 
He  lay  still. 

The  clerk  read  the  note  aloud,  after  the  morgue  had 
been  phoned,  and  the  body  covered. 

"To  Paul  Judson: 

"This  act  is  my  punishment,  for  living  on  the 
earth  your  presence  scars ;  a  just  God  will  punish 
you  in  another  world. 

"This  act  will  bring  home  to  your  conscience 
your  responsibility  for  murder: 


THE  CLASH  329 

"Murder  of  twenty-three  miners  in  the  mine 
explosion  ; 

"Murder  of  John  Dawson,  and  fifty  innocent 
strikers,  by  the  guns  of  your  gunmen; 

"Murder  of  your  guards  by  your  own  acts; 

"Murder  of  the  bodies,  hearts  and  souls  of 
starving  strikers.  Murder  of  good  in  all  people. 
Murder  of  justice  in  your  courts. 

"Murder  of  me,  as  a  warning  of  what  you 
deserve. 

"CHRISTOPHER  DUCKWORTH." 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  the  clerk  whistled.    "A  plain  nut." 

"I  seen  how  crazy  he  looked,"  said  the  information 
clerk.  "Good  thing  he  didn't  miss  an'  hit  you,  Court- 
ney." 

A  little  stenographer  fainted.  One  of  the  telephone 
operators  discussed  it  with  a  chummy  runner.  "I 
wouldn't  work  here  now,  not  if  you  paid  me !  It's  awful 
bad  luck." 

"Gee,  if  I  was  afraid  of  stiffs!"  he  said,  pityingly. 

The  scrubwomen  grumbled  at  having  to  clean  up  the 
floor  again.  "Ought  to  be  extra  pay  for  this.  .  .  .  Bad 
enough  to  clean  them  floors  once." 

Paul  Judson,  returning  from  Jackson  on  the  morning 
train,  did  not  learn  about  the  grim  protest  until  he 
reached  the  office. 


V 

THE  SCATTERING 


XXIX 

OTELLA  COLE  loitered,  fascinated  by  the  glisten  of 
O  the  new  Judson  kitchen.  She  addressed  the  cook, 
with  that  shade  of  superiority  family  servants  invariably 
feel  to  newcomers. 

"Could  you  ask  Miss'  Mary  to  step  heah  a  secon', 
Mahaly?" 

The  girl  departed,  sniffing  superciliously  at  the  old 
mountain  woman  who  still  had  the  monopoly  of  the 
Judson  laundry. 

The  gaunt-cheeked  negress  faced  her  mistress  with  an 
elemental  dignity.  "Miss'  Mary,  kin  you  ask  Mr.  Judson 
a  favor  fo*  me?" 

"Surely,  Stella.     What  is  it?" 

She  traced  the  linoleum  pattern  slowly  with  the 
frowsy  toe  of  a  black  slipper.  "Hit's  dis  way,  Miss' 
Mary.  Ah'se  movin'." 

"Moving!     From  the  mountain?" 

"Yassum." 

"It  isn't "  she  hesitated  a  moment.  "It  isn't— the 

strike?" 

Mary  Judson  shivered  as  she  spoke  the  word.  The 
overtones  to  that  word  jangled  horribly,  summoning  with 
their  ghastly  discord  troops  of  disordered  pictures,  frag- 
ments of  sorrows,  jagged  moments  of  agony.  Around 
that  word  she  grouped  mentally  Pelham's  distressing 
breach  with  his  father,  the  son's  growth  away  from  her, 
the  dead-fingered  protest  of  Duckworth's  suicide, 
glimpses  of  red  death  staining  the  kindly  mountain,  the 
wilful  burning  of  the  house  that  had  stored  memories 

333 


334  MOUNTAIN 

which,  next  to  the  Jackson  childhood,  were  the  most 
poignantly  joyful  life  had  given  her.  That  word  sum- 
moned the  defacing  of  the  mountain's  beauty  and  har- 
mony, and  her  present  exile  from  it;  as  well  as  a  spirit- 
ual exile,  the  cold-visioned  knowledge  of  the  chasm  be- 
tween her  and  Paul  that  had  widened  irrevocably  in  the 
hushed  storms  that  were  their  quarrels  born  out  of  the 
strike. 

The  keen  black  eyes  took  in  something  of  this,  as  it 
shadowed  momentarily  the  lined,  tortured  face  of  the 
wife  of  Paul  Judson.  Mary  Judson  had  grown  old, 
older  than  the  soft  gray  of  her  hair  and  the  gray  prints 
around  her  mouth  indicated:  old  with  the  timeless  age 
of  torn  illusions  and  murdered  dreams :  old  with  the  age 
that  the  same  three  years  had  brought  to  Stella  Cole. 

"No'm,  Miss'  Mary.  .  .  .  Yassum,  dat  is.  ...  Ah'se 
movin'." 

A  spasm  of  pity  smoothed  the  mistress'  drawn  cheeks, 
as  she  felt  gripped  by  the  roughened  brownish  face, 
gnarled  by  its  helpless  acceptance  of  the  death  of  hope. 
"Do  you.  .  .  .  Have  you  found  a  house,  Stella  ?  Do  you 
know  where  you're  going?" 

"Yessum.    Ah  knows  whar  Ah'se  gwine." 

"And  you're  going " 

"Home,  Miss'  Mary." 

"Home?" 

"Yessum.  .  .  ."  Feeling  that  more  was  required,  her 
face  wrinkled  with  an  old  shy  eagerness.  "To  Macon, 
Miss'  Mary;  Macon,  Georgy.  Whar  me  'n'  Tom  corned 
f'um,  afore  we  done  moved  to  Atlanta.  .  .  .  Afore  we 
done  come  here." 

"We'll  hate  to  lose  you  from  the  mountain,  Stella." 

"Yessum."  She  recrossed  her  hands  uneasily,  and 
straightened  up  from  the  table  against  which  her  hip  had 
swayed  for  its  solid  rest. 


THE  SCATTERING  335 

Mary  Judson  studied  the  face  of  the  mother  before 
her  with  a  hidden  hunger,  trying  to  read  in  its  blackened 
lineaments  the  elusive  recipe  that  had  brought  that  flicker 
of  happiness  at  the  mention  of  home. 

"Your  boys.  .  .  .  You  have  Ed  still,  haven't  you?" 

"No'm."  The  rich  tones  grew  gossipy,  in  a  detached 
way.  "Ah  ain't  got  none  of  'em.  Jim  he  die  fu'st,  Miss* 
Mary;  he  die  w'en  de  mine  exploded.  De  Lawd  tuk 
him  fu'st;  he  wuz  a  good  chile.  Den  Babe.  He  wuz 
mah  baby;  dey  shot  him.  Dat  wuz  two.  Den  Will  an' 
Diana  dey  die,  w'en  de  house  burn  down.  Dey  shoot 
dem  too.  Dey  wuz  good  chillun  too,  Miss'  Mary.  Ah 
ain't  ben  'specially  a  sinful  'ooman;  Ah  s'pose  dey  de- 
su'ved  it  somehow,  Ah  caint  figger  out.  .  .  .  Dat  makes 
.  .  .  yessum,  dat  makes  fo'.  Tom  he  die;  he  wuz  ole, 
it  wuz  his  time.  Dat  lef  Ed.  De  las'  time  dey  bruk 
up  dem  strikers,  dey  shoot  Ed."  She  gulped,  closed  her 
eyes  a  minute. 

"I— I  hadn't  heard." 

"No'm.  Ed  wuz  diff'runt.  Ed  he  kill  a  man.  A 
white  man.  But  de  jedge  tu'n  him  loose.  Dey  wuzn't 
nothin'  wrong  dar,  de  jedge  he  say.  Dey  made  Ed  a 
depity.  Den  dey  kill  him.  .  .  . 

"Ah  tole  dem  boys,  Miss'  Mary,  Ah  tole  'em  a  power- 
ful time  ago,  hit  wuzn't  no  nigger's  business  ter  meddle 
in  white  folkses'  fusses.  Dey  seed  diff'runt.  De  Lawd 
done  tuk  'em  all,  'cep'  me.  Ah  ain't  got  no  business 
here,  Miss'  Mary.  Ain't  got  no  folkses  here.  Ah  got 
two  brudders  in  Macon,  Georgy.  So  Ah'se  movin'." 

Mary  bit  her  lips,  to  steady  her  words,  to  force  back 
the  tears  that  insistently  crept  down  her  own  cheeks. 
"Anything  that  Mr.  Judson  can  do  for  you,  Stella " 

The  negress  dug  around  in  the  littered  bulge  of  the 
handbag  the  mistress  had  given  her,  and  brought  up  a 
greasy  leather-covered  book.  "Dis  here's  Diana's  bank 


336  MOUNTAIN 

book,  what  she  save  f'um  her  wu'k.  Ah  thought  maybe 
Mr.  Judson  could  git  me  de  money.  Bar's  thuhty  fo' 
dollars,  she  tole  me.  An'  Ah  got  Tom's  benefit  money 
f'um  de  Galileum  Fishermens,  it  corned  in  a  letter."  She 
discovered  the  creased  check,  and  handed  it  over.  "Den 
Ah'll  have  some  money  over  w'en  Ah  gits  to  Macon; 
dey'll  be  gladder  to  see  me;  you  know  how  it  is,  Miss* 
Mary.  An'  if  Peter  could  drive  me  'n'  mah  stuff  to  de 
depot,  if  he  wuzn't  too  busy ' 

"Of  course  I'll  see  that  you  have  Peter.  What  day 
are  you  leaving?" 

"Sad'day.    De  train  goes  at  two  erclock." 

"I'll  see  that  he  gets  there  in  plenty  of  time." 

Stella's  eyes  roamed  unconcernedly  around  the  shin- 
ing rows  of  aluminum  pans ;  she  sighed  with  satisfaction. 
"How's  Miss  Susie  an'  Miss  Nell?" 

"Both  doing  finely.  Susie's  living  in  Detroit,  you 
know;  and  Nell  is  studying  art  in  her  neighborhood." 

The  old  mammy  leaned  forward.  "Ah  seed  Mistuh 
Hollis  w'en  he  wuz  heah  las'  monf.  He  do  make  a  fine 
sojer,  Miss'  Mary." 

"We  are  both  proud  of  him.  And  now  with  Ned 
visiting  in  Jackson,  there  are  only  two  of  us  here." 

"Mistuh  Pelham  ain't  come  roun'  much,  is  he?  He 
doan't  git  along  wid  his  paw,  do  he?  ...  Dat's  what 
mah  boys  dey  say,  in  dat  union.  .  .  ." 

Mary  breathed  out  heavily.  "They  do  not  agree  on 
everything,  Stella." 

Stella's  eyes  rounded  with  satisfaction;  with  the  in- 
timate impertinence  native  to  negroes  who  have  grown 
old  in  confidential  employ,  she  nodded  her  head  proudly. 
"Mah  boys  dey  got  along  finely  wid  deir  paw,  Miss'  Mary. 
Thank  you  kin'ly,  ma'am,  fuh  speakin'  to  Mr.  Judson." 

Finally  the  trunks  and  boxes  were  packed,  with  the 
help  of  neighbors  from  Lilydale.  Brother  Adams'  boys 


THE  SCATTERING  337 

got  most  of  her  sons'  clothes,  except  the  newest  suits; 
these  she  folded  into  the  bottom  of  the  biggest  trunk  for 
future  emergencies.  Peter  was  on  hand,  at  Mr.  Judson's 
orders,  to  crate  such  of  the  furniture  as  she  wished  to 
take;  although  many  of  the  extra  things  went  to  this 
friend  and  that.  .  .  .  There  did  not  seem  much  use  in 
taking  everything. 

Babe's  cap  with  the  new  mining  lamp,  Diana's  school 
books  and  framed  diploma,  the  old  family  Bible,  Ed's 
re-shined  deputy's  badge,  were  wrapped  carefully  to- 
gether. 

At  length  the  last  package  was  hoisted  onto  the  wagon, 
and  after  laying  the  shoebox  of  lunch  on  the  seat  Peter 
was  to  occupy,  and  taking  a  final  drink  of  spring  water, 
she  clambered  carefully  up  to  the  driver's  bench.  Peter 
hopped  up  with  gray-haired  .cricket-like  agility,  clucked 
sharply,  and  the  horses  jogged  off. 

They  drove  behind  the  crest,  on  the  circling  road  above 
Lilydale.  Peter  chuckled  to  himself. 

"What  you  laughin'  at?" 

"Ah'se  thinkin',  sistuh  Stella,  dat  you  sho'  buried  a 
passel  er  people  in  dis  place." 

She  nodded  in  complacency.  "Six  of  'em,  Peter,  six 
of  'em." 

He  chuckled  on.  "Dey  gwineter  plant  you  nex',  sistuh 
Stella." 

"Dey  gotter  kill  me  fu'st." 

She  looked  back,  as  the  road  turned  into  the  viaduct 
for  Adamsville,  and  sighed  heavily.  She  remembered 
the  arrival  in  the  city  .  .  .  the  wait  in  the  office  of  the 
Galilean  Fishermen,  while  the  children  ate  up  all  the  cold 
fish  sandwiches  and  speckled  bananas  Tom  had  gotten 
for  their  lunch.  All  gone.  All  gone.  Unbidden,  frag- 
mentary pictures  of  the  romping,  frolicking  boys,  sober 
Diana,  came.  .  .  .  Jim  crying,  when  the  hatchet  chopped 


338  MOUNTAIN 

his  foot.  .  .  .  Babe's  round  face.  .  .  .  Ed's  face,  and 
the  others,  in  their  pine-wood  coffins.  .  .  .  Tom's  kindly 
smile.  All  gone.  A  weak  tear  welled  from  under  each 
old  eyelid. 

She  looked  around  cautiously  to  see  if  Peter  was  no- 
ticing. No,  he  was  drowsing  forward,  letting  the  horses 
choose  their  own  way. 

She  undid  quietly  the  end  of  the  box  of  lunch,  and 
took  out  a  sandwich.  Real  chicken  breast !  The  sisters 
of  the  Zion  Church  certainly  did  do  things  up  in  style. 


XXX 

THE  visit  of  the  president  of  the  National  Steel  Com- 
pany was  the  floodtide  of  the  year  to  Adamsville. 
On  Paul  Judson,  both  as  President  of  the  Commercial 
Club  and  through  his  connection  with  the  mining  com- 
panies, fell  the  largest  share  of  the  reflected  glamor  from 
the  guest's  powerful  personality. 

After  the  luncheon  at  the  new  Steelmen's  Club,  the 
party  crowded  into  cars,  to  inspect  the  region's  mineral 
development. 

"Eight  solid  miles  of  mountain  here,"  Paul's  inclusive 
gesture  swept  the  stretch  from  Hazelton  to  far  beyond 
North  Adamsville  up  the  valley,  "five  other  locations 
within  a  ten  mile  radius  .  .  .  seventeen  camps  in  all." 

"It's  a  big  plant,  Mr.  Judson." 

"It's  the  largest  in  the  South,  sir.  Coal  yonder,"  he 
indicated  the  valley  beyond  Shadow  Mountain,  "only 
nine  miles  as  the  crow  flies.  The  cheapest .  iron  and 
steel  region  in  the  world.  They  don't  grow  that  close 
together  in  Pittsburgh,  the  Lakes,  or  anywhere." 

"A  wonderful  opportunity.  .  .  .  We're  prepared  to 
talk  business." 

"So  are  we."  Both  smiled  the  comprehending  smile  of 
men  of  achievement. 

Sam  Ross  and  urbane  Judge  Florence  took  the  visitor 
for  a  round  of  the  patent  tipples.  "We're  just  getting 
over  a  little  strike  in  these  mines,"  the  Judge  expanded. 

"I've  followed  it.    Came  out  all  right,  didn't  it  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  do  you  know,  those  fellows  hung  out 

339 


340  MOUNTAIN 

for  over  a  year !    And  they  were  beaten  from  the  start." 

"I  know.  In  the  Colorado  trouble "  Reminis- 
cences came  in  opulent  detail. 

Governor  Tennant,  a  member  of  the  receiving  party, 
stayed  behind  for  a  word  with  Paul.  "Did  Jerry  Flor- 
ence speak  to  you  for  me?" 

"Not  yet.  .  .  ." 

"He  will,  when  he  has  the  chance.  My  second  term's 
up  next  year,  Paul.  The  state  wants  a  business  govern- 
or. Adamsville  hasn't  had  her  chance  for  five  terms. 
.  .  .  Would  you.  .  .  .?" 

The  owner  of  the  mines  drove  his  hands  into  his  pock- 
ets, clenched  to  mask  the  sudden  exhilaration.  His  voice 
remained  unthrilled.  "It's  out  of  my  line,  Bob.  ...  I 
doubt  if  it  could  go  through." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it.  The  primary's  the  election,  re- 
member; we  can  make  the  papers  and  the  politicians  so 
insistent,  that  you  can't  refuse.  You'd  hardly  have  op- 
position." 

"I'll  see  what  the  Judge  thinks.  .  .  .  You'll  hear  from 
me  by  Friday." 

"The  offer  stands." 

The  people's  executive  motored  after  the  guest  cars. 

Paul  Judson  stood  alone  on  the  old  cottage  crest,  sur- 
veying the  overnight  growth  of  the  city  toward  his  moun- 
tain. The  houses  on  East  Highlands  had  lapped  closer 
and  closer,  until  they  broke  in  a  spray  over  the  foothills 
of  the  ore-rich  summit. 

Managing  vice-president  of  the  biggest  mining  business 
in  the  state,  third  largest  land-owner  in  Bragg  County, 
governor  after  next  January!  Well,  he  had  gotten 
where  he  had  planned,  sixteen  uneven  years  ago. 

He  recalled  vaguely  the  vision  that  he  had  had,  when 
he  had  sat  on  the  same  crest  beside  Nathaniel  Guild,  and 
decided  to  purchase.  He  would  bring  the  city,  and  the 


THE  SCATTERING  341 

state,  to  the  feet  of  the  mountain.  .  .  .  He  had  done  it. 

The  jutting  enginehouse  smokestacks,  the  ramp  offices 
to  the  right,  the  snarl  and  screech  of  the  loaded  cars  on 
the  narrow-gauge  lines,  forced  themselves  into  his  at- 
tention. Not  a  scene  of  beauty ;  and  there  was  a  charred 
desolation  where  Hillcrest  Cottage  had  once  spread  its 
graceful  lines. 

It  was  not  the  dream  he  had  had.  A  man  dreamed 
blindly;  life  brought  to  pass  a  substitute  instead  of  the 
sought  goal.  It  was  a  necessary  process ;  since  dreams 
must  conflict,  and  the  restless  shift  of  things  constantly 
opened  new  possibilities,  closed  old  ones.  No,  it  was 
not  what  he  had  pictured.  .  .  .  There  was  no  son  beside 
him  now,  to  take  up  the  work  in  turn  and  pass  it  on  to 
endless  Judsons.  Pelham.  .  .  .  Hollis  in  service,  too 
pleased  with  the  work  to  give  it  up.  .  .  .  Ned  already 
determined  to  be  a  surgeon.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  a  magnificent  achievement. 

Musing,  he  walked  over  the  grayed  site  of  the  old 
house.  His  toe  met  an  obstacle  jutting  in  the  grass.  He 
poked  it  up  with  his  cane.  It  was  the  fused  handle  of 
the  Bohemian  glass  epergne  which  had  been  grandfather 
Judson's.  He  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  to  show  Mary. 

His  wife,  her  face  lined  and  colorless,  as  if  from  too 
many  hours  and  years  spent  indoors,  listened  with  in- 
tent attention  to  his  account  of  the  afternoon.  Two 
sickly  spots  of  color  glowed  at  what  the  governor  had 
said. 

"But  ...  it  will  mean  a  hard  contest,  will  it  not  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so.  The  primary  is  the  only  chance 
for  a  real  fight;  and  the  Tennant  crowd  will  stop  that 
in  advance.  You'll  have  to  brighten  up  a  bit,  Mary. 
You  ought  to  do  more  entertaining.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  very  strong,  Paul." 

His  gruff  "Nonsense !"  was  the  prelude  to  the  further 


342  MOUNTAIN 

account  of  the  planned  amalgamation  with  National 
Steel.  "We're  still  to  have  control  of  this  district ;  Flor- 
ence and  I  will  be  elected  directors.  It  had  to  come; 
competition  is  waste ;  cooperation  is  the  modern  method." 

His  wife  sat  with  her  eyes  intent  upon  the  melted 
fragment  of  colored  glass  in  her  hand.  She  turned  it 
this  way  and  that,  up  before  the  fading  light,  seeking 
what  semblance  of  the  colorful  old  token  of  Jackson 
life  remained  in  it,  what  part  was  merely  a  charred, 
dead  fragment  of  happier  beauty. 

"So  I  thought,"  he  continued,  unaware  of  her  ab- 
sorption, "that  we  could  entertain  the  visiting  gentlemen 
and  their  wives  at  dinner  to-morrow  evening." 

A  pinched  expression  of  pain  crossed  her  face.  "You 
have  not  realized,  Paul,  that  I  am  frailer  this  spring  than 
any  time  since  Ned  was  born.  .  .  ." 

"I  mean  at  the  Steelmen's  Club,  not  here.  It  won't 
be  any  trouble.  .  .  ." 

"I  can  make  the  effort." 

"You  must  see  Dr.  Giles.  I  had  a  talk  with  him 
about  you ;  he  says  it's  only  nerves.  If  you'd  quit  think- 
ing about  that  old  fool  that  shot  himself  in  my  office, 
and  those  niggers  that  fooled  around  the  place  until  they 
got  shot.  .  .  .  There's  nothing  really  wrong  with  you. 
Nell  must  give  up  the  art  school;  you  need  someone  to 
look  after  you." 

"She  doesn't  want  to  come ;  she's  happier  there." 

"You  ask  Dr.  Giles."  He  went  on  with  elaborate  sug- 
gestions about  the  dinner;  Mary  Judson  laid  down  the 
blackened,  fused  handle  of  glass;  then  held  it  again 
against  the  darkened  light  without.  Hardly  a  glint  of 
color  remained.  .  .  .  That  night  she  laid  it  away  upon 
a  closet  shelf  in  one  of  the  unused  rooms  of  the  great 
house. 

By  Friday,  after  a  long  talk  with  Judge  Florence,  Paul 


THE  SCATTERING  343 

had  made  up  his  mind.  He  had  his  secretary  wire  the 
governor  to  run  back  to  Adamsville  for  a  consultation; 
he  sent  word  to  Robert  Kane,  who  had  left  the  directo- 
rate to  succeed  Pelham  as  state  mining  inspector,  to 
meet  him  half  an  hour  before  the  governor  was  due. 
No  chance  that  either  would  fail  the  engagement;  one 
crook  of  his  little  finger,  and  the  state  came  at  his  bid- 
ding. The  iron  mountain  had  given  that  power  to  its 
iron  master — a  magnetism  repellent  but  irresistible. 

When  the  two  builders  of  the  mining  strength  rose  to 
meet  the  governor,  there  was  a  subdued  glitter  of  ex- 
pectation in  the  eye  of  the  younger  man.  He  took  the 
governor's  hand  with  a  new  assurance. 

Bob  Tennant  —  "Whiskey-barrel  Tennant"  —  had 
sought  his  accustomed  solace  on  the  ride  up  from  Jack- 
son; his  face  was  flushed  brick-red,  although  his  tones 
were  still  straight. 

"Well,  Paul — am  I  in  the  presence  of  the  next  govern- 
or?" He  essayed  a  satisfactory  bow  with  oldtime  court- 
liness. 

".  .  .  Yes,"  Paul  answered  slowly 

"That's  great,  old  man !" 

"Shake  hands  with  him,  Bob — Mr.  Robert  Kane,  your 
mining  inspector." 

Tennant's  self-possession  bridged  the  surprise.  "So 
he's  your  trump-card !" 

"Can  you  put  it  over?" 

"Whatever  you  say  goes  with  me,  Paul;  whatever  I 
say,  goes  with  the  state.  You  won't  mind  frankness,  Mr. 
Kane ;  we're  practical  men.  You  didn't  want  to  run  your- 
self, Paul?" 

The  magnate  walked  the  length  of  the  office,  smoothing 
a  cigar  between  his  fingers.  He  tore  off  the  silver  wrap- 
per, rolled  it  into  a  ball,  and  flung  it  deftly  into  an  open 
basket.  "There's  a  lot  of  soreness  about  that  strike  still, 


344  MOUNTAIN 

Bob;  it's  hardly  worth  the  trouble.  Jerry  Florence 
agrees  with  my  idea.  Kane'll  make  a  good  man ;  his  gift 
union  card  is  worth  a  few  votes.  You  have  something 
else  we  need." 

"Speak  it  out,"  Tennant  nodded  with  vigorous  affa- 
bility. "Anything  in  heaven  or  hell  for  a  friend — ain't 
that  what  they  all  say  about  Bob  Tennant,  old  man  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Todd  Johnson's  an  old  man,  Bob ;  ready  to 
retire.  You  can  keep  me  in  mind  for  the  next  senatorial 
vacancy;  say  within  two  years." 

"Why  didn't  I  think  of  that!  Well,  gentlemen,  we'll 
regard  that  as  settled.  Let's  go  by  the  club,  and  do  a 
little  celebrating." 

"We'll  join  you  there  in  an  hour,"  the  astute  iron  man, 
half-pitying  the  other's  craving,  assured  him.  "Wait  for 
tis." 

When  Tennant  had  gone,  the  master  walked  through- 
out the  office,  rolling  the  unlighted  cigar  with  satisfaction 
around  the  rim  of  his  teeth.  "He'll  do  as  he  says,  Kane ; 
we  furnish  the  funds.  .  .  .  You'll  have  a  job,  the  next 
four  years." 

"Matters  in  general  ?    The  war  ?" 

Judson  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "It  won't  last  four 
years.  There's  certain  victory,  now  that  our  country's  in. 
I'm  thinking  about  conditions  to  follow.  You  see  what's 
happening  in  Russia " 

Kane  laughed  self-consciously.  "We  wouldn't  be  safe 
there.  In  some  mining  corner,  where  the  radicals  con- 
trol, they  jailed  all  the  mine-owners ;  even  shot  one,  for 
being  a  monarchist.  But  here,  in  this  country " 

"That's  the  idea.  We've  got  to  convince  the  American 
workingman  that  he  is  never  to  turn  on  the  creator  of  his 
prosperity.  We'll  have  sporadic  unrest;  and  that  spine- 
less bunch  at  Washington  add  to  it,  by  kowtowing  to  the 
railroad  brotherhoods,  and  even  allowing  unions  among 


THE  SCATTERING  345 

government  employees.  We  can  stiffen  up  their  back- 
bones." 

"Why,  our  workingman  is  not  only  the  best  paid  in  the 
world,  he's  getting  a  larger  share  all  the  time — even  in 
some  lines  in  Adamsville." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  That's  what  we  must  stop.  We  did  it,  to 
the  miners.  What  we've  done  here,  we  can  do  elsewhere. 
Patriotism,  prosperity — these  answer  any  discontent. 
Elections  or  strikes,  we  can't  lose,  with  these  as  achieved 
slogans.  Now  that  we're  in  National  Steel,  we  have  their 
backing  as  well.  The  mines  are  safe ;  we've  got  to  keep 
them  so.  If  once  we  give  way  an  inch,  they'll  demand  two 
more.  I  know  you'll  hold  fast." 

"Yes.  ...    As  governor,  I'll  hold  fast." 

"Now  to  find  Bob  Tennant,  and  keep  him  alive  until  he 
has  you  elected." 

They  left  the  watchman  to  darken  the  office,  and  de- 
parted for  the  Steelmen's  Club. 

The  weeks  that  followed  that  last  strike  meeting 
pushed  Pelham  into  deepening  despondency.  The  Chari- 
ties work  was  over ;  at  the  end  he  noticed  a  growing  aloof- 
ness in  the  philanthropy  offices.  His  father  and  the  iron 
men  contributed  heavily;  why  should  the  son  be  wel- 
comed ? 

Louise  was  gone;  he  had  made  no  effort  to  fill  her 
place,  although  Dorothy  Meade  had  stopped  him  on  the 
street  one  morning,  and  looked  searchingly  into  his  face 
— less  as  friend  of  Jane,  than  as  if  to  appraise  the  changes 
in  him,  and  measure  him  for  a  vacancy  in  her  days.  .  .  . 
She  need  not  look  there ;  he  felt  that  that  yesterday  was 
not  worth  reviving.  Jane's  absence  removed  a  substantial 
joy  from  his  life ;  the  mere  bodily  gap  was  not  insistent 
enough  to  warrant  casual  or  commercial  filling. 

A  burst  of  energy  sent  him  after  permanent  employ- 
ment. The  doors  were  shut  kindly  in  his  face ;  the  mines 


346  MOUNTAIN 

would  have  none  of  him ;  and  he  found  that  the  corpora- 
tions' fingers  were  upon  the  whole  city. 

"Of  course,  I  can  find  something  for  you,"  Lane  Cul- 
lom  consoled,  "but — mere  office  work;  not  what  you're 
fitted  for,  my  boy." 

Adamsville  was  locked  to  him.  The  moribund  socialist 
movement  would  use  his  voluntary  services;  but  he 
needed  a  livelihood.  Serrano,  Jensen,  Mrs.  Spigner,  on 
a  hurried  visit,  had  called  by ;  the  comrades  were  reacting 
to  him,  though  the  unions  held  off.  But  Adamsville 
would  need  a  scorifying  industrial  schooling  before  soli- 
darity could  come.  He  had  lost  his  craving  for  the  role 
of  teacher  .  .  .  even  if  he  had  been  acceptable. 

He  must  leave  Adamsville.  He  confided  this  to  Jensen, 
and  .the  Hernandezes.  "I  might  organize  for  the  Na- 
tional Socialist  Office,  or  do  something  for  the  New  York 
Philanthropy  Bureau." 

"That's  bourgeois,  comrade,"  objected  Mrs.  Hernan- 
dez. 

"I  must  make  a  living." 

The  morning's  mail,  a  few  days  later,  contained  a  curt 
note  from  Jane;  his  fingers  tore  it  open  with  awkward 
haste. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  planning  to  leave  Adamsville,"  it 
ran.  "Even  if  we  can't  live  together,  I  can  not  see  you 
waste  your  possibilities,  here  or  elsewhere.  Come  by  and 
see  me,  before  doing  anything  definite.  I  am  your  friend, 
as  long  as  you  will  have  me." 

He  hurried  to  the  phone,  pausing  a  moment,  with  hand 
over  the  transmitter,  to  steady  his  voice. 

She  told  him  he  could  come  at  once. 

There  was  no  buoyancy  in  his  greeting.  "I've  made  a 
mess  of  things,  Jane." 

"It    was    disgraceful,"    she    sympathized    vigorously, 


THE  SCATTERING  347 

"raking  up  that  old  story.  Pig-headed  fools  always  turn 
on  you." 

"They  were  sick  of  the  whole  thing ;  they  couldn't  see 
that  the  strike  had  brought  them  closer  to  victory." 

She  leaned  forward,  lips  parted  in  the  old  bewitching 
way,  her  brown  eyes  radiant.  "Did  your  father  arrange 
that?" 

"He's  strong  on  family." 

"It  was  a  shame." 

"I  meant  more  than  that.  .  .  My  savage  report  as 
mining  inspector.  .  .  Then — with  you." 

Her  head  remained  averted. 

"Maybe  you'd  rather  I  wouldn't  mention  that " 

Gradually  she  faced  him.  "I  think  I  understand  that 
.  .  .  too.  You're  not  worse  than  most  husbands.  .  .  . 
Only,  I  wish  you'd  finished  sowing  your  wild  oats  before 
your  marriage." 

"I  felt " 

"You  see  how  it  is,  Pelham,"  she  explained  as  gravely 
as  to  a  little  child.  "You  had  to  choose  between  me,  and 
other  women.  You  made  your  choice." 

"Was  it  ...  necessarily  .  .  .  final,  Jane?" 

Her  frank  eyes  searched  his  face.  "Sometimes  I  tell 
myself  it  ought  to  be.  It's  hard.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  love 
you,  Pelham." 

"Suppose  I  came  to  you,  on  your  terms.  .  .  ." 

"I  should  reserve  the  right  to  act  as  you  did,  if  I  ever 
wished  to." 

He  nodded,  trying  to  make  out  what  was  going  on 
within  her  mind. 

"I  would  tell  you,  though,"  she  went  on.  "With  that 
understanding  .  .  .  yes." 

He  did  not  touch  her,  sensing  the  physical  revulsion  she 
must  still  feel.  His  voice  trembled  in  joyful  disbelief. 
"You'll  really " 


348  MOUNTAIN 

"I  am  your  wife.    And  I  love  you." 

Her  fingers  brushed  his  hand ;  he  shivered  in  passion- 
ate repression. 

"Jane "  A  troubled  crease  roughened  his  forehead, 

"I'll  try " 

"That's  all  I  can  ask." 

They  sat  in  dynamic  silence,  intent  on  their  diverse 
thoughts.  He  relaxed  into  restful  satisfaction,  havened 
again ;  her  doubtful  fancies  strove  to  shape  of  crumbling 
material  some  firm  future  for  them  both. 

Her  words  came  with  difficulty.  "What  you  ought  to 
do,  Pell,  is  to  get  work  with  the  Federal  Mining  Com- 
mission. Washington  outlooks  are  broader  than  Adams- 
ville ;  particularly  in  war-time.  That's  your  chance." 

Worn  with  multiplied  disappointments,  he  was  unable 
to  follow  her  enthusiasm.  "We  couldn't " 

She  filled  in  details.  "Senator  Johnson  would  put  in  a 
word  for  you.  Congressman  Head's  practically  a  social- 
ist. Why  not  get  it  ?" 

"If  you  realized  how  downhearted " 

"You  write  to-morrow."  She  smoothed  his  tousled 
hair  with  the  old  familiar  gesture.  "It's  an  endless  fight, 
dear." 

"I  think  you'd  better  sell  the  car,"  she  told  him,  the 
morning  the  federal  commission  arrived.  "You  may  be 
sent  anywhere  now — our  bank  balance  is  low."  She 
stopped  halfway  down  the  stairs,  to  wipe  off  a  picture 
dusty  from  its  weeks  of  neglect. 

"It's  fine  to  be  back  in  harness  again !" 

''Marital,  Pell?" 

His  comfortable  grin  answered  her.    "Both  kinds." 

"You'll  be  sorry  to  leave  Adamsville  ?" 

"The  iron-hearted  city.  .  .  .  Sorry — and  glad,  too. 
It's  one  of  the  finest  places  in  America — to  leave." 


THE  SCATTERING  349 

Her  nostrils  wrinkled  with  the  old-time  intimate  charm. 
"You  have  deteriorated." 

"What  could  you  expect,  with  myself  as  my  only  audi- 
ence?" 

Then  he  regretted  leaving  the  way  open  for  reference 
to  another  auditor;  but,  after  a  noncommittal  scrutiny, 
she  did  not  pursue  that  topic. 

"And  then,"  Pelham  continued  hurriedly,  "we're  not 
leaving  it  forever.  We'll  return  for  another  round  with 
the  triumphant  malefactors." 

"You  think  there's  a  chance?"  Her  question  was  from 
the  heart. 

"The  South  is  twoscore  years  behind  the  rest  of  the 
country.  We  were  premature.  .  .  .  But  the  South  can't 
lag  forever.  Even  the  dreadful  war  will  quicken  intellects 
everywhere;  every  day's  headlines  mention  'socialism,' 
where  it  was  never  heard  of  three  years  ago.  If  we  are 
wise — as  we  weren't  in  '61 — it  may  come  sensibly ;  if  not, 
God  help  my  respected  father,  and  the  rest  of  the  monied 
vultures,  in  that  day ! 

"I  remember  my  first  view  of  the  city — the  furnaces, 
and  the  coke  ovens ;  it  looked  like  the  pit  of  hell  to  me. 
.  .  .  Well " 

Word  came  at  last  of  his  detail  to  duty  at  Washington. 
It  was  hard  to  end  the  home  they  had  built  together  in 
the  Haviland  Avenue  house;  but  the  prospect  ahead 
salved  the  regret. 

The  work,  when  Pelham  came  to  it,  proved  congenial 
and  illuminating.  He  was  nearer  the  core  of  the  matter 
now ;  the  mining  industry  of  a  country  passed  before  his 
eyes. 

At  the  suggestion  of  the  deputy  commissioner,  he  ac- 
companied that  official  on  a  special  trip  to  New  York,  the 
port  from  which  the  manufactured  steel  was  being  hur- 
ried over  to  the  hungry  fields  of  France.  Jane  went 


350  MOUNTAIN 

along ;  the  three  stood  together  in  the  arc-lit  glow  of  the 
vast  freight  station. 

"I  thought  you  wanted  to  see  it,"  the  friendly  commis- 
sioner repeated.  ''Rails,  guns,  gun-stocks,  wire,  a  thou- 
sand sundries — and  every  car  your  eye  can  see  straight 
from  the  Adamsville  mills.  There's  enough  steel  railing 
there  to  triple-track  from  the  Marne  to  Berlin,  with  lots 
to  spare!" 

They  drew  together  at  the  vastness  of  the  spectacle. 

"The  metallic  sinews  of  war,  my  boy — just  as  the  boys 
of  Adamsville  and  the  country  are  the  human  sinews.  I 
understand  your  feelings,  Judson ;  but  can't  you  see  that 
they  are  spreading  the  same  ideal  of  democracy  that  your 
comrades  work  for?" 

"I  hope  some  good  will  result;  it's  not  easy  to  see 
clearly,"  Pelham  answered  slowly. 

As  the  commissioner  left,  the  son  of  Adamsville  placed 
his  arm  around  Jane.  "And  our  mountain  did  all  of  this ! 
What  pawns  it  made  of  us !  We  flung  up  here,  the  miners 
scattered,  endless  change  and  turmoil.  ...  I  used  to  say 
the  mountain  mothered  me ;  but  it  flung  me  out  like  my 
father  too.  Perhaps  it  embodied  all  of  us.  Perhaps" — 
a  sudden  surge  of  bitter  memory  turned  the  drift  of  his 
thinking — "perhaps  autocracy  would  suit  the  mountain, 
as  well  as  democracy." 

"I  think  not,"  Jane  replied  slowly.  "When  its  products 
are  washed  away  by  the  streams,  they  quicken  the  whole 
soil.  Humanity  can  afford  culture  now  for  all ;  all  must 
win  their  chance  at  it." 

"The  war  sets  us  back.  .  .  ." 

"And  pushes  us  on  too.  After  it  is  over,  these  metallic 
and  human  sinews  will  rebuild  a  world  democracy  at 
peace.  Men  have  failed ;  the  women  come  to  their  tasks 
now." 

"Yes ;  the  aching  past  surely  has  taught  us  something. 


THE  SCATTERING  351 

We  must  build  right,  now.  Old  standards  are  gone ;  the 
world  furnace  of  war  has  quickened  all  the  people.  .  .  ." 

"We've  done  our  small  part." 

"With  the  biggest  part  still  to  do.  We  are  to  see  the 
beginning  of  the  building  of  the  New  World  in  the  hearts 
and  souls  of  men.  .  .  .  For  that  is  the  final  building." 

They  walked  out  to  the  jutting  end  of  the  vast  pier, 
studying  the  aimless  restlessness  of  the  ocean  drift  slosh- 
ing against  the  clustered  piles. 

She  turned  to  stroke  a  raveling  from  his  coat.  Upon 
the  bright  flush  of  her  cheek  he  brushed  a  fleeting  kiss. 

A  resting  gull  flopped  heavily  from  a  water-swung 
stake,  skimmed  low  over  the  gray  sparkle,  and  lessened 
on  beating  wings  into  the  sun-glitter  to  the  west. 


XXXI 

SPRING  on  the  mountain.  Over  the  eastern  rim  of 
sand  hills  the  sturdy  sun  of  May  flared  up.  The 
neutral  gray  pooled  in  the  valleys  woke  to  a  rustling  flame 
of  green ;  the  wind  whipped  from  the  crest  the  last  shred 
of  clinging  cloud,  and  dried  the  wet  kiss  of  the  mist  upon 
cottage  and  bungalow,  rumpling  the  summit  as  far  as  eye 
could  cover. 

The  sibilant  buzz  of  motor  trucks,  returning  to  the  dis- 
tant dairies  beyond  the  second  mountain,  died  eastward. 
Lawn  mowers  clicked  rhythmically,  school  tardy  bells 
rang,  chatting  nursemaids  chose  the  stone  benches  under 
the  deepest  shade  of  the  parked  roadways.  Jays  flickered 
noisily  through  the  ringed  oaks  still  rising  from  the 
sparse  areas  of  fenced  outcrop. 

A  gray  limousine  disturbed  the  sunny  height  with  its 
alien  whirr — turning  from  Logan  Avenue  to  reach  the 
great  flowery  green  on  the  crest  left  of  the  gap.  Two 
men  climbed  out,  stretching  cramped  limbs ;  the  first  with 
firm  carefulness,  testing  each  footing  before  he  rested 
upon  it,  the  second  with  deferential  assistance. 

The  elder  man  walked  over  to  a  curved  bench  facing 
the  spread  of  the  city  below.  From  old  habit  he  pulled 
out  a  cigar,  twisted  the  silver  wrapper  into  a  ball,  and 
spun  it  deftly  into  smooth  grass  covering  a  healed  scar 
caused  by  the  old  mining.  His  teeth  crunched  into  the 
well-packed  leaves;  his  tongue  rolled  the  unlit  Havana 
around  the  rim  of  his  mouth. 

352 


THE  SCATTERING  353 

The  other  stopped  a  step  or  two  behind.  "It's  rough 
on  you,  Paul.  .  .  .  You're  all  alone  in  the  new  Hillcrest 
Cottage  now,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  Governor.  .  .  ." 

He  pondered  soberly,  and  spoke  again  with  a  depre- 
cating cough.  "Your  wife  was  an  exceptional  woman." 

"Death  makes  no  exceptions,"  the  other  mused  aloud; 
there  was  small  feeling  within  him  that  this  was  any- 
thing else  than  a  philosophic  excuse  for  weakness  in 
others.  After  a  few  minutes  silence,  he  took  up  the 
thread  again.  "You  know,  Kane,  Mary  hadn't  been 
strong  for  some  years.  Life  on  the  mountain  was  hard 
on  a  woman.  She  took  the  strike  very  much  to  heart; 
her  house  was  burnt  then.  .  .  .  That  was  why  I  de- 
clined the  Senatorship  .  .  .  then."  His  squinting  gaze 
took  in  the  panorama  before  and  to  the  rear.  ''It's 
changed.  .  .  .  Not  a  mine  within  ten  miles  now;  noth- 
ing nearer  than  those  wonderful  new  openings  this  side 
of  Coalstock.  .  .  .  Houses,  houses,  houses.  .  .  ."  His 
eyes  looked  from  the  ample  homes  along  the  crest  estate, 
to  the  cheap  frame  houses  crowding  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
on  the  side  toward  Adamsville;  and  then  to  the  negro 
settlement  of  Lilydale  behind,  which  a  pushing  real  estate 
firm  had  continued  to  the  very  border  of  the  Hillcrest 
lands. 

"It's  a  pity  the  land  fringing  yours  hadn't  your  develop- 
ment. When  the  riff-raff  once  move  into  a  neighbor- 
hood  " 

"I  know,  I  know.    The  mountain's  held  out,  so  far." 

Paul  achieved  a  moment's  isolation  by  walking  to  the 
edge  of  the  summit.  The  children  would  return  soon  to 
their  scattered  homes;  he  was  the  last  Judson  living  in 
Adamsville.  .  .  .  He — and  the  mountain.  He  had  risen 
to  the  crest  of  his  ambition — he  asked  no  more. 


354  MOUNTAIN 

The  mountain  soil  was  still  iron-stained ;  but  much  of 
its  strength  had  passed  to  him — had  given  him  this  iron 
grip  upon  things  and  people.  Power,  iron  power  .  .  . 
wherever  men  were,  the  iron  sinews  of  the  mountain  had 
carried  the  name  of  Paul  Judson. 

"Have  we  time  for  that  trip  to  North  Adamsville?" 
Kane  at  last  interrupted. 

"Get  in.  Something's  wrong  out  there;  dissatisfaction, 
that  should  have  been  squelched.  I'm  going  to  make  a 
change." 

Following  the  northward  trail  of  robin  and  flicker,  the 
gray  limousine  whirred  away  from  the  smoothed  crags 
and  their  reddened  memories. 

The  children  dawdled  back  from  school.  The  homing 
older  people  returned  from  office  and  club,  from  mill  and 
furnace  and  store.  The  artificial  lights  by  night  made 
golden  wounds  on  the  darkness.  One  by  one  these 
blended  with  the  black,  except  for  the  street-globes  reared 
below  the  damp  green  of  the  leaves. 

The  sprinkled  glitter  of  city  lights  below  cast  a  quiet 
shimmer  over  the  drowsy  hillside.  Far  away,  in  a  giant 
semicircle,  an  intermittent  surf  of  furnace  glare  and  coke- 
oven  glow  mottled  with  dusky  crimson  the  low  haze  of 
the  sky. 

Following  the  sun  trail,  the  silver  glitter  of  the  Lyre 
climbed  from  the  east,  the  northern  cross  spread  its  un- 
gainly form,  the  soft  brightness  of  Vega  poised  like  a 
fleck  of  white  light  above  the  somber  fringe  of  Shadow 
Mountain.  The  soft  glamor  of  the  May  night  reaffirmed 
its  immemorial  sway  over  the  sleeping  hulk  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

Two  screech-owls  sent  their  shivery  call  through  the 
dark.  Shreds  of  cloud  drifted  lower  and  lower,  until 
they  rested  lightly  on  the  foliage  above  the  healed  scars 


THE  SCATTERING  355 

of  ramp  and  gulley.  The  stars  sagged  westward;  after 
them  the  clouds,  and  all  the  trespassers  by  night,  were 
quietly  driven  by  a  faint  breeze  rustling  its  promise  of 
dawn. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


NON-RENEWABLE 

DEC  0  1  M97 


DOE  2  WKS  FROM  DATE  RECEIVED 

UCLA 


REC'D  LD-URL 
v  * 


A    000129908    0 


